Skip to main content

Full text of "The lofty and the lowly; or, Good in all and none all good"

See other formats





"The North and the South, Thou hast created them." Ps. 89, v. 12. 
" Light is sown for the righteous, and gladness for the upright in heart." Pa. 
97, v. 11. 


VOL. I. 



ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of 











NEW-TOUR, Nov. 29th, 1852. 


THE following volumes were commenced two years ago, im- 
mediately after the publication of " Woman in America." 
Laid aside for a time from the pressure of other engage- 
ments, they were resumed during the past summer, and have 
been concluded with little, if any, modification of their origi- 
nal plan. They had their origin in the desire to remove 
some of the prejudices separating the Northern and South- 
ern United States, by a true and loving portraiture of the 
social characteristics of each. To do this for the South, re- 
quired, of course, the introduction of negro-slavery ; and 
though with a painful consciousness that she was nearing 
the elements of strife, the author has endeavored to sketch 
it as it appeared to her during an acquaintance with it of 
more than twenty years. 

If, in pursuing the course originally marked out for her- 
self, the author has been led unwillingly within precincts 
which others have made an arena of controversy, she has not 
entered armed for combat, but, relying upon the privileges 
accorded to her sex by the chivalry of every age, she stands 


between the contending parties, bearing the olive-branch, and 
desiring only to pour balm into the wounds given by more 
powerful hands. 

While endeavoring faithfully to represent classes, the 
author has as carefully endeavored to avoid every approach 
to personalities, except in one instance ; " Daddy Cato " had 
a real existence in one who was both honored and loved in 
her own family. To draw his picture has been a labor of 

It may be proper to add, that every instance of sacrifice 
to a sense of duty in the slave-holder, or of affection in the 
slave, here recorded, had its foundation in fact known to the 
author, not by report, but by actual observation. 

As the work had its origin in love, so is it sent forth, 
with many a loving wish, mingled, alas ! with many a re- 
gretful sigh that the fruit is so little worthy of the seed, the 
performance of the conception. May He who can give effi- 
ciency to the feeblest instrument, make it productive of 
" peace and good-will to man." 
Dec. 1st, 1852. 

Cjj* ffffta m* 




If thou art rich, thou'rt poor; 

For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, 
Thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, 
And Death unloads thee." 

BOSTON, Jan. 23d, 1822. 

Dear Sir : My sister, Mrs. Chas. Montrose, being un- 
able to write herself, has requested me to communicate to 
you the very afflicting intelligence of the death of your 
brother, which occurred suddenly yesterday, from an apo- 
plectic seizure. This is a very sad occurrence, and the 
sorrow it occasions is increased by the fear that it may 
have been induced by the anxiety of Mr. Montrose respect- 
ing the present state of his business. I have not, of course, 
been able yet to make any examination of Mr. Montrose's 
books, but I have reason to apprehend that his property 
will do little more than satisfy the demands against his 
estate. As no will has been found, I propose, with the 
consent of those most interested, to administer on the 


estate. The settlement of the business must be very 
troublesome, I know, but I am willing to incur the trouble 
for the hope of saving something from the wreck for my 
sister and her little girl. Charles, I can place at once as a 
clerk in a mercantile house, where he will soon be able to 
earn his own support. His mother and sister will for the 
present find a home in my house, and though the claims of 
my own family will not permit me to pledge myself for 
their entire maintenance, I will assist them as far as I can, 
and will promise to give Alice such an education as will 
enable her in future to command independence, if not ease. 
I have written thus fully, sir, because I felt you were 
entitled to know all the prospects of those so nearly con- 
nected with you. I hope to be favored with your advice 
and co-operation, and shall therefore await your answer 
before taking any decisive step. 

I remain, sir, very respectfully, 

Your obedient servant, 


The writer of the foregoing letter might have been 
taken as the model of a successful merchant. Shrewd and 
cautious in business, he had never entered into any of those 
wild speculations, by which many of his acquaintances, 
making haste to be rich, became poor. Close in his calcu- 
lations, and a rigid economist, his expenses had always 
been kept far within the limit of his income. He was now 
supposed to be worth about half a million, and had osten- 
sibly withdrawn from business, but was believed to be a 
sleeping partner to a considerable amount in the house of 
which he had formerly been the head> and where still no 
important step was taken without his advice. 

Within the last ten years, Mr. Browne had removed 
from his former residence in a retired street, to one of the 


handsomest houses in the neighborhood of the Mall, and 
had set up his carriage. The introduction of the eldest 
Miss Browne into society had presented the occasion for 
these changes. In his new abode, Mr. Browne had added 
to the general approbation of his character as a merchant, 
no small share of social distinction. His menage is in 
every respect well appointed, his dinners excellent, his 
wines of the rarest. Let us see him as he sits now in the 
midst of his family. 

The apartment in which they are assembled is called 
' The Study," though we doubt whether it is often appro- 
priated to the purpose which such a name indicates. It is 
a cheerful room ; a fire burns brightly in the grate, and the 
astral lamp solars were not yet invented burning on the 
rosewood escritoire, throws its rays on cases filled with 
richly gilded volumes, and surmounted with busts of Homer, 
Shakspeare. Milton, and Dante. Mr. Browne has drawn 
near the fire, around which the family have collected, as, in 
consequence of the death of Mr. Montrose, their doors are 
closed on visitors, and the larger reception-rooms look 
gloomy when occupied by only their own little circle. Mr. 
Browne is a gentlemanly looking person of fifty, or there- 
abouts, smooth, sleek, and somewhat corpulent ; his counte- 
nance expressing satisfaction with the world and with 
himself. Mrs. Browne, fat, fair, and forty, seems no less 
complacent. The Miss Browne, for whose advantage her 
parents had made such changes in their domestic arrange- 
ments, had been for two years the mistress of another home. 
A young man of eighteen, or thereabouts, somewhat fop- 
pishly dressed, sits twirling a watch chain around a finger on 
which sparkles a diamond ring. Two young ladies in 
dresses of fashionable make and rich material complete 
the party. 

" Mamma," said the youngest of the ladies, ' : how long 


must we keep our house shut up and refuse to see any 

" Till after the funeral, of course, Eliza." 

" Must we wear mourning ?" asked the elder Miss 
Browne, a young lady who had probably seen some twenty 

" Certainly, my dear Anne," said the father. 

" Slight mourning," said the mother. 

" Not too slight, my dear," rejoined Mr. Browne. " I 
would have every thing done to mark our respect for my 
sister's husband. Poor Montrose ! ah. had he but taken 
my advice !" 

A shade of sadness passed over the faces of the little 
group, and the next question seemed to indicate that their 
thoughts had been for a time drawn from themselves. 

" How did you leave Aunt Montrose, mamma ?" 

h She was asleep, my dear. Poor thing ! she was quite 
wild till the opiates made her asleep, and these opiates 
she would take for nobody but Charles. I think in the 
confusion of her mind, she mistook him for his father, for 
when he would say, ' Dear mother, take it for your Charles,' 
she would answer, ' Any thing, any thing for you Charles,' 
and swallow it down directly." 

" And little Alice ?" said the young man who had not 
yet spoken. 

" Alice slept, too, but she sobbed on even in her sleep, 
and when her nurse attempted to remove her from her 
mother's side to her own bed, she cried out, ' Let me alone, 
I won't leave papa.' " 

" Poor Ally, she loved her. father so much, and he made 
such a pet of her how she will miss him !" 

" She will miss many things, I fear, my son, to which 
she has been accustomed. The sins of the father are 
indeed visited upon the children." 


" But surely, sir," exclaimed the young man, with an 
earnestness which gave expression and interest to a face 
wanting only these to make it handsome, " surely, Mr. Mon- 
trose has not left my aunt and cousins without support?" 

" A bare support, George, and that probably to be ob- 
tained through the kindness of friends aiding their own ef- 
forts, is a very different thing from the fortune they have 
hitherto enjoyed, as you would have understood before this, 
if I had been carried away by any of those foolish specula- 
tions in which your uncle Montrose has sunk money so ra- 

Having thus seen how Charles Montrose was regarded 
in the house of his adoption, and by those with whom his 
marriage had connected him, let us see with what feelings 
his memory was cherished in the home of his birth and by 
the companions of his childhood. To do this, we must 
transfer the reader to the country residence of Col. John 
Montrose, situated on one of the small bays that indent the 
eastern shore of Georgia, south of the Savannah river. It 
s about ten days after the death of Mr. Montrose, and 
though the last winter month has but commenced, there is so 
little of winter in the air of the clear soft evening, that we 
may linger for a moment without the house, to mark the 
features of the scene. 

The house, a large square building of wood, two stories 
high, is surrounded by a wide piazza, and has a balcony run- 
ning along the front of the second story. It stands on 
slightly rising ground, about two hundred and fifty yards 
from the shore of the bay. Part of this space is occupied 
by a shrubbery, in which white flowers are already gleaming 
amid the darker shadows of the evergreens. Beyond the 
shrubbery, the path to the shore crosses a grassy lawn dotted 
here and there with trees, among which, by the evening's 
dusky light, we can distinguish only two gigantic live-oaks 


stretching their arms over many a rood of ground, and wav- 
ing their gray drapery in the breeze. On the southern side 
of the house is a small flower garden, whose neatly kept beds 
are gay even now with roses, jonquils and hyacinths. On 
the north are the vegetable garden and orchard, and in the 
rear cluster several low buildings, among which we can dis- 
tinguish the stables and the kitchen, and wash-house as it is 
called. That the kitchen should be thus placed at a dis- 
tance from the proprietor's mansion, seems to us at first a 
very inconvenient arrangement ; but as we approach it, the 
loud jovial tones that issue from it force us to acknowledge 
the wisdom of placing it where the mirth of its dark in- 
mates shall neither trespass on the proprieties of the parlor, 
nor be checked by their consciousness of the neighborhood of 
the higher powers. At the distance of from an eighth to a 
quarter of a mile, our view is closed by a dark line which, 
were it daylight, we should find to be a belt of forest trees. 
But it is time to look within ; for the messenger of evil 
tidings is drawing near, and we would introduce the happy 
party assembled there, before sorrow casts its shadow across 
their threshold. We may enter without summons or an- 
nouncement, for the door stands invitingly open. Up the 
steps, across the piazza, into the wide hall, and now, turning 
to the left, we are within the room from whose windows there 
falls such a cheerful light. 

The room is large, with four windows opening on the 
east and south. Opposite the door by which you enter is a 
fireplace, whose dimensions would have appalled Count Rum- 
ford. "Within this fireplace, on heavy and elaborately orna- 
mented brass andirons, lie large logs of oak wood, crackling 
in the blaze of the pitch-pine torches beneath them. How 
brightly and merrily plays that red flame on the various ob 
jects in the room, on the gay carpet of not very fine ingrain 
on the handsome but old-fashioned sideboard with its mar 


ble slab covered with cut glass, and bearing at each end 
heavy silver pitchers, on the clumsy mahogany chairs, black 
with age, on the tea-table with its snowy damask covering^ 
its hissing silver urn, its variety of waffles and wafers and 
biscuits, its steaming hominy, its substantial dish of broiled 
ham, its toasted cheese and saucers of orange sweetmeats. 
But a servant has lighted the candles in the tall silver can- 
dlesticks, and removed them from the high carved wooden 
mantel-piece to the table, and we will turn from the inani- 
mate objects in the room to examine by their clearer light 
the persons assembled there. At the head of the table sits 
a lady whose age is not far from forty. Her dress is very 
plain, and so far removed from any affectation of youthful- 
ness, that it might suit a lady much older than she appears 
to be, yet amid all this simplicity, there is a certain stateli- 
ness of manner, and, at times, a gleam of pride, we had al- 
most said of haughtiness, in the eyes, which mark one who 
has been accustomed to regard herself as entitled to no 
secondary place in her world. At this moment, however, 
we can discover in her countenance no emotion so unamiable 
as pride, but a mother's love beams from every feature as 
she looks on the animated faces of a boy of ten, who, seated 
on the rug before the fire, is putting the finishing touch to 
an immense kite, and of a girl about three years younger 
who stands beside him. In the last we see a striking like- 
ness to the lady herself. Especially is this seen in the erect 
form, the sparkle of the dark eye, and the proud carriage of 
the little head, whose glossy ringlets put entirely back from 
the face fall almost to the waist behind. The boy's broader 
forehead and less delicate features seem modelled more upon 
those of the gentleman reclining drowsily in an arm-chair 
near him. Col. Montrose, for this is he, looks what his name 
and title seem to claim for him, the gentleman and the sol- 
dier, but he looks yet more than these. Few can match that 


gigantic frame, tall, with broad chest and slightly stooping 
shoulders, and that head, its dark hair besprent with gray, 
its massive features cast in a Roman mould, and wearing, as 
he sits there looking on his children, something of the aspect 
of a sleeping lion. 

But the lion is aroused, for a servant enters hastily with 
newspapers and letters, and with a kindling eye and eager 
hand ne takes them and draws near the light. Mrs. Mon- 
trose too approaches, and glances over his shoulder with a 
look of interest at the address on the three or four letters 
he holds. One of these is in a strange hand, and he is about 
to lay it aside unread, when the post-mark BOSTON attracts 
his eye ; he turns it over, the seal is black, and a shade 
of anxious thought may be seen to pass over his face, 
as he hurriedly breaks it and unfolds the letter. His eye 
runs rapidly over a few lines, and the letter falls from the 
trembling hands which he clasps over his bowed face. Not 
a sound escapes his lips cries and tears are for women and 
children, but suffering deeper, bitterer, because it must be 
still, for men. Such is his thought, perchance, as he sits 
there as still and seemingly as insensible as marble, while 
his heart is wrung by the contrast- of the present with the 
pictures which memory so vividly and so rapidly places be- 
fore him. Now he sees the rosy boy whose cradled sleep 
he had watched with somewhat of a protecting feeling ris- 
ing in his own almost baby breast now, as he murmurs his 
evening prayer at his mother's knee, the same cherub form 
kneels at his side and lisps a simple petition. In the wild 
sports of boyhood, in the high aspirations and bold adven- 
tures of youth, still they go forward hand in hand and heart 
linked to heart, protector and protected. Manhood had se- 
parated them, but it was to be for a brief season only, and 
though year had followed year till age had stolen upon them, 
they still had hope'd that they should stand together again in 


their father's halls, " shoulder to shoulder," ere they lay in 
their fathers' burial-place, " side by side," and now he has 
lain down to his last sleep in a strange land, and instead of 
the brother he had so longed to clasp to his heart once more, 
he has only these cold memories. His childhood's world is 
now desolate indeed, and though his wife is weeping in sym- 
pathy with his unspoken sorrow, and his children are turning 
a wondering gaze upon his grief-stricken form, he feels alone. 
Mrs. Montrose is one who feels too deeply and truly herself, 
to hope to soothe such grief by words, but she lays her 
hand softly, tenderly upon her husband's. He understands 
the mute appeal, and clasping that delicate hand for a mo- 
ment, says. " I will go to my room, Bella. Give the chil- 
dren their tea and afterwards come to me." 

As he rises and leaves the room, she looks after him sor- 
rowingly, but she does not offer to accompany him, she 
knows that his thoughts are not now for her. She had 
never known Charles Montrose. She was the second wife 
of his brother, and it was soon after the first marriage of 
Col. Montrose, a marriage which was childless, that Charles 
was induced, partly by the persuasions of an old college com- 
panion, and yet more, perhaps, by the pretty face and pleasing 
manners of Alice Browne with whom he had met during a 
summer visit to Boston, to sell his property in Georgia to 
his brother and enter into mercantile life in that city. In 
taking this step, Charles Montrose had given a signal in- 
stance of his love for his gentle Alice, for it had been in 
direct opposition to all the habits of thought and feeling 
impressed on him in earlier years, and in opposition to the 
yet stronger prejudices of the brother whose opinions had 
thitherto guided every important action of his life. At the 
time of which we write the people of different parts of the 
United States were but little known to each other. To the 
inhabitant of the Southern States, not only the New Eng- 


lander, but everyone who dwelt north of the Potomac was a 
Yankee a name which was with him a synonyme of meanness, 
avarice and low cunning while the native of the Northern 
States regarded his southern fellow-citizens as an indolent 
and prodigal race, in comparison with himself but half civi- 
lized, and far better acquainted with the sword and the pistol 
than with any more useful implements. Too many of these 
prejudices still remain, but they are so far abated that we 
can now scarcely conceive the keen pang with which Col. 
Montrose learned that his brother had not only dishonored 
his family by a connection with that of a Yankee shopkeeper, 
a term considered by him as applicable to every man who 
lived by traffic of any sort but that he was about to enter 
into trade himself. The brothers parted with more coldness 
than they had ever done before ; but when, two years after, 
Col. Montrose became a childless widower, his brother's 
heart yearned to bring cheering to his desolated home. 
Leaving his wife whose presence just then might, he feared, 
bring painful memories to his brother's mind, he returned to 
Georgia and passed most of the winter at Montrose Hall. 
Col. Montrose accompanied him on his return to Boston and 
passed several months in the Northern States, making that 
city his head-quarters. This visit disabused Col. Montrose 
of many false impressions. 

The brothers did not meet again, for Col. Montrose, 
taking the land route home, had met his present wife in Vir- 
ginia, had married her in the ensuing summer, and had found 
his home since too attractive to leave it willingly. They 
had therefore been twelve years separated, for the second 
marriage of Col. Montrose had taken place in 1810, and it 
was now 1822. These years, it may be thought, even if 
they had not worn out his brother's tenderness, were suffici- 
ent to make the name of Charles Montrose an almost forgot- 
ten sound with all others in his Southern home. The sad 


countenances of the attendants, however, as the explanations 
of Mrs. Montrose to her children revealed to them the 
nature of their master's affliction, and the tears and impas- 
sioned exclamations with which the intelligence of his death 
was received by the older servants who had tended him in 
his infancy, sported with him in his childhood or served him 
in his youth, contradicted such an imagination. 

When Col. Montrose was able to read Mr. Browne's letter, 
he found much in it that offered bitter food for thought. It 
gave poignancy to his grief to know that the brother he 
mourned had been bowed to the grave by the pressure of 
care, of disappointment and apprehension, while Mr. Browne's 
offers of service to his widowed sister and her children, and 
his proposal to procure a clerkship for Charles Montrose, and 
to educate Alice in such a manner that she might support 
herself well meant as they doubtless were excited his 
contempt and indignation. 

" The mean Yankee !" was his bitter exclamation ; " he 
boasts of his generosity in being willing to receive his own 
sister under his roof, and before the grave has closed upon 
my poor brother, he is calmly arranging a life of toil for 
his children but my brother's children shall have no need 
to labor while I have a home to offer them." 

Before Col. Montrose slept that night, he had written 
two letters which a servant was ordered to be in readiness 
to take to the nearest post-town at an early hour on the fol- 
lowing morning. The first of these was to Mrs. Charles 
Montrose, and we insert it here. 

Dear Sister : The event which has made us mourners 
has but drawn closer the tie that united us, and has given 
us claims on each other which nothing else could have done. 
You cannot, I feel assured, deny me the only consolation I 
can know under the pressure of this heavy sorrow the con- 


solation of seeing all that is left me of my brother, of hav- 
ing the objects of his tenderest love, his wife and children, 
with me in my own home, under my own care, and within 
reach of the daily and hourly expressions of that affection 
with which my heart overflows for them. Your children are 
henceforth mine, and you must relinquish to me all care for 
their future maintenance and settlement in life. I cannot 
speak of business now we shall have time enough when we 
meet for that come to me as soon as you can. I am an 
old man, in feeling, at least, and have more perhaps of an 
old man's aversion to leaving home than my fifty years may 
excuse, but if you have any timidity about making the voy- 
age under the protection of Charles, I will come for you. It 
may be that you will need funds ; do not hesitate to draw 
on me. I shall write to your brother, however, on that sub- 

You will understand why I cannot say more to you, at 
present, except that my wife and children join earnestly in 
my entreaties that you will come. Farewell, my dear sis- 
ter ! Give our love to Charles and Alice. Teach them 
that, while I live, they are not fatherless, and, believe ine 
with a regard which no natural tie could transcend. 

Your brother, 


MONTROSE HALL, Feb. 6th, 1822. 

This letter was enclosed in one to Thos. Browne, Esq., 

the contents of which were as follows : 

Dear Sir : I herewith enclose to you a letter for Mrs. 
Chas. Montrose, in which I have urged her coming immedi- 
ately to me. Supposing, from yours of the 23d ult., that 
there may be a want of funds to meet her present demands, 
I hereby authorize you, if needful, to draw at sight on my 


factors, Messrs. & , of Savannah, for five hundred 

dollars. I will take care that they are in funds to meet the 
draft when presented. 

In urging Mrs. Montrose to come to us, I am influenced 
no less by a desire to advance her interests than by more 
selfish considerations. If she can be happy in our home, she 
will live there without expense either for herself or her chil- 
dren, and whatever you can save from my brother's estate 
may be left to accumulate till the children are of age or 
marry. As I have no acquaintance with mercantile affairs, 
I shall never be disposed to interfere with any arrangement 
of the business that you may make, not doubting that you 
will do all that it is possible to do with justice to others for 
your sister. I thank you for your offer to obtain a place 
for Charles, but I hope you will not object to his coming out 
with his mother, that I may see and converse with him, be- 
fore any irrevocable step is taken respecting his future 
course. Alice shall have such advantages of education as 
are given to my own daughter, and, as my daughter, she 
shall be provided for. 

If I can at any time aid you in the settlement of my 
brother's estate, do not hesitate to call on me. 

Please present my respectful remembrances to Mrs. 
Browne and your daughters, and believe me, sir, 

Your ob't servant, 

MONTROSE HALL, Feb. 5th, 1822. 

There was something of calm superiority in the smile 
with which Mr. Browne read this letter. 

" You will go, of course," he said to his sister, " for the 
home which he here offers you is probably all that you or 
your children will ever get from Col. Montrose. These 
Southern gentlemen deal much more in promises than in 


ready money. I should advise you, notwithstanding Col. 
Montrose's objections, to place Charles in the situation I 
have been offered for him before you go. All boys love 
idleness, and if you take him South and give him his choice, 
he will probably remain there, to grow up with the indolence 
and extravagance of a Southerner. Leave him here, and I 
will train him into an active, intelligent, successful mer- 

Mrs. Chas. Montrose yielded easily on most occasions to 
the opinions of others, especially of her brother, whose suc- 
cess in life seemed to her incontestable proof of his wisdom, 
but now her maternal fondness was on the side of Col. 
Montrose, and she steadily insisted that her son should enter 
into no engagement till he had seen and conversed with him 
who now stood to him in the place of a father. 



-" We're not all here ! 

Some are away the dead ones dear. '' 

"We are all here !' 

" Even they the dead though dead so dear.'' 
" They're round us as they were of old" 
"We are all here !" 

A WINTER voyage in a sailing packet sea-steamers were 
then scarcely a dream for a timid woman and two children % 
the elder of whom was only twelve years old and the young- 
er not yet six, may seem to have been no light undertaking, 
but Mrs. Charles Montrose had few thoughts to spare for 
fears connected with such an object. The sea, even when 
darkest and most stormy, seemed bright in comparison with 
the grave which lay behind her, or the unknown home to 
which she was approaching. 

A March sun was shining warmly and brightly as they 
sailed up the Savannah river, and they looked forth from the 
deck of the ship upon a scene clothed with verdure and 
flowers, but Mrs. Montrose gazed on it with tear-dimmed 
eyes and a sinking heart, feeling only that all around her 
was strange in aspect, and as they approached the shore she 
drew her children to her bosom with deeper desolation of 
soul than she had yet experienced. Her arms were still 
around them and the tears falling from her bowed face upon 
the almost flaxen curls of her little Alice, when Charles 


whispered, " Who is that, mother ?" and looking up, she 
met the eyes, and with a sudden impulse stretched out her 
arms to the advancing form of one who seemed an older and 
grander and perhaps somewhat sterner image of her husband. 
The heaving of his breast as he folded her and her children 
together in a warm embrace, and the abruptness with which 
he turned away and walked to the farther end of the deck, 
that he might dry the moisture in his eyes and still the 
quivering of his lip before he could speak to them, might 
have taught her that his heart, if stern, was not cold. With 
few words, but those coming so directly from his heart that 
they dispelled all apprehension and loneliness from hers, 
Col. Montrose soothed his sister's grief without adverting to 
it. Scarcely could she believe it a reality, when a few minutes 
after she found herself seated at his side in a roomy, heavy 
old-fashioned coach, the dreaded meeting over, and a feeling 
of security and rest, such as she had not known for long, 
stealing to her heart. Her children looked more as they 
had done in former days than she had seen them since her 
husband's death. The tears were scarcely dried upon their 
cheeks, yet Charles wore a less anxious brow, and Alice 
smiled one of her own merry smiles, as her uncle told her of 
the cousins who were expecting her, and who would have 
come to Savannah to meet her, if his carriage had been large 
enough to permit them all to travel back together. 

" Bella thought I was inconsiderate in planning to take 
you directly home whenever you should arrive she thought 
I should give you a day or two of rest in Savannah first but 
I felt you would rest better at home than you could do any 
where else." 

" Thank you ! Thank you ! I shall indeed," ejaculated 
Mrs. Charles Montrose with a grateful smile. 

Blest power of sympathy, granted only to finer spirits, 
how little is thy heavenly influence understood by common 
minds ! Visits of condolence, words or letters of condolence 


are the usual modes of expression of what the world calls 
sympathy but to the truly sympathizing soul these are 
impossible, for such a soul knows that these are engines of 
torture, tearing open the scarce closed wounds, plunging 
jagged darts into the yet bleeding heart. From such a soul, 
gentler tones and kindlier looks, and tenderer words, show 
that the sorrow never named is never forgotten, and that in 
its esteem this sorrow has been as the fire from Heaven, 
sanctifying what it burned. Col. Montrose evinced that he 
was the possessor of this heavenly gift of sympathy, when 
he showed to the poor mourner at his side, that he and his 
Bella had taken counsel together for her comfort, and when 
he spoke to her of a home which was to be her best resting- 
place. Home ! there was balm in the very word. Nor was 
the promise given by that word and by his tender care unfulfill- 
ed. The proud head of Mrs. Montrose was bowed in meek- 
est pity to the widow and the fatherless. The young Isa- 
belle and Donald Montrose, awed by the shadow of the 
first grief that had fallen on their household, were unusually 
quiet and gentle, and thought the sacrifice of their most 
valued treasures well rewarded by an expression of pleasure 
from their "poor cousins who had no father" while every 
negro on the plantation was anxious to prove his affection- 
ate regard for " poor Mass Charles !" by some gift from his 
little patch, or poultry yard to his widow and children, or by 
some service performed for them, in those hours which were 
his own by prescriptive right. The influence of all this 
kindness upon Mrs. Charles Montrose will be best revealed 
in a letter from her to her brother, written about one month 
after her arrival at Montrose Hall. 

MOXTROSE HALL, April 23d, 1822. 

My dear Brother : I promised in my last letter that 
you should hear from me again as soon as I had time to 


think of the future, and to make any decision on the very 
different plans proposed by my equally kind friends, Col. 
Montrose and yourself. I fear, my dear brother, that you 
will think the decision to which I have at length arrived, 
very weak and self-indulgent. I have no doubt that the 
course you presented to me would be the most successful, 
the wisest possible course, if fortune alone were to be con- 
sidered, but indeed, dear brother, I am not equal to the 
exertion it would demand. You little know how weak your 
poor Alice indulged and petted as she has been by the 
tenderest heart in the world has become. You say there 
could be no doubt of my success as a teacher ; but, I fear, in 
thinking thus, you greatly overrate my powers. My life, for 
many years, has been a life purely of the affections. I have 
read little, thought little, and felt oh how much ! Before I 
could teach, I should find it necessary to become a learner, 
and how could I hope to learn with a mind so darkened by 
sorrow. Oh, no ! dear brother, you must pardon my weak- 
ness the shadow of death has fallen upon me I cannot go 
forth into the careless world and enter upon the business of 
life, unless, indeed, such an effort were necessary to procure 
my children bread. This, I bless my kind Heavenly Father, 
it is not. He has raised up for them and for me a friend a 
brother for me a father for my children in Col. Montrose. 
He knew the heart of my Charles ; he loved him, oh how 
dearly ! and he says that Charles would have chosen for me 
as I have chosen for myself. Our home will be here it is a 
pleasant home a joyous home to the children, and to me the 
happiest I can now have any where : for it was the earliest 
home of my husband, and here every one I see loved him and 
mourns for him. You must not think, however, that I intend 
to receive so much without any return. There is one thing 
which I do feel myself competent to teach music. You 
know how great was my husband's passion for it ; for his 


sake I had the best masters and did all in my power to 
profit by their instruction. Now this is precisely the in- 
struction which Col. Montrose finds it most difficult to pro- 
cure for his daughter, and both he and Mrs. Montrose were 
delighted when I offered to teach her with my own Alice. 
Many other lighter accomplishments, common at the North 
and little known here, they will also learn from me, while 
the more solid parts of education, they, as well as my 
Charles, will acquire from the tutor of Donald Montrose, 
Mr. Dunbar, an elderly clergyman. Mr. Dunbar resides in 
a cottage about half a mile from Montrose Hall, and, being a 
widower without children, lives very comfortably on a salary of 
four hundred dollars from Col. Montrose, and about the same 
amount from the congregation worshipping at the little coun- 
try church, three miles distant, which we attend. Thus, my 
dear brother, neither I nor my children will be at any ex- 
pense, except for clothing. Even for this, Col. Montrose 
would have persuaded me to trust to him, but it will be 
very painful and humiliating to me to do so, and I cannot 
help hoping that the wreck of our own fortunes is not so 
entire, but that I may hope to receive two hundred dollars 
a year the smallest sum for which, with even the severest 
economy, I could hope to procure a decent wardrobe for three 
persons. May I hope, my dear brother, to hear from you in 
relation to this part of my letter, and if I cannot obtain 
your approbation, will you at least assure me that you for- 
give your weak, but ever affectionate sister, 


In due course of mail Mrs. Charles Montrose received 
the following reply to this letter. 

BOSTON, May 10th, 1823. 

You have judged rightly, Alice, in supposing that I 
could not give my approbation to a scheme which condemns 


you and your children to beggary for the rest of your lives ; 
for, say what you will call it by any name, however fine, 
those who are receiving from another what they can never 
hope to repay, are beggars. I speak plain language, for I 
am a plain man, and know nothing of Southern Chivalry, 
though I think my word would pass for as much in the 
market as the r.ote of the proudest nabob amongst them. 
You ask me to say that I forgive you. I can scarcely do 
this with truth, for I consider you as throwing away, from 
shameful indolence, the very best possible prospects of in- 
dependence for yourself and your children. You do it with 
your eyes open, however, and while I have no right to force 
you even to your own good, it is a comfort to me to feel 
that I have at least done my part, and that neither you nor 
your children can ever blame me in the affair. I would 
have taken all the responsibilities and the trouble no little 
I can assure you, whatever you may think of it of the 
arrangements for your school until it had been fairly set 
a-going. To Alice, I would have secured such an education 
as would have enabled her ten years hence to take your 
place, and for Charles I had already, as I wrote you, a place 
in the counting-house of one of our best firms. And all this 
you have given up, that you might live the life of an idler 
and a humble dependent in the house of another, teaching 
two girls to strum on a piano, and patching old finery that 
you and your children may dress on two hundred dollars a 
year, without disgracing your rich relations by your shabbi- 
ness. Well as I said before I have nothing farther to 
do with it, and henceforth wash my hands of the whole 
affair, except so far as may be necessary to see that you 
have your stipulated two hundred dollars. This, for the 
present, must be sent you from my own purse whether I 
shall ever be repaid from your husband's estate, I do not 
know. If the business were wound up at once, I certainly 


should not be. I shall therefore continue it at my own risk, 
and hope iii time to make it worth something more than 
that income to you. Thus, you see, my way of showing 
kindness to my friends is not to support them in idleness, 
but to help them to make the most of their means of 
supporting themselves. It is all which can be expected 
A-oni a Yankee shopkeeper, and 

Your Brother, 


There was a tone of personal bitterness running through 
this letter, which would not have been entirely inexplicable 
to Mrs. Chas. Montrose. if she had heard a conversation 
between Mr. Browne and a Boston merchant who had spent 
several winters in Savannah, in the prosecution of his busi- 
ness, which occurred the very day before her letter was 

" Did you ever meet with Col. Montrose at the South ?" 
asked Mr. Browne. 

" Oh, yes often though only in the way of business. 
He was quite too high to condescend to have any other asso. 
ciation with a Yankee shopkeeper, as he calls all Northern 

Mr. Browne had all the super-sensitiveness common to 
those who pnter late in life a circle for which their birth and 
early training had not prepared them, et hinc illce laclirymce. 
His letter produced no change in his sister's plans, though it 
made her a little less happy in their adoption. We leave 
her at Montrose Hall to experience the gradual influence of 
the great healer, Time. When we bid them adieu. Charles 
and Donald Montrose are preparing for college or for their 
future professions, under the tuition of Mr. Dunbar. and 
Isabelle and Alice are sharing with their brothers in the ben- 
efit of his instruction, and receiving the lighter feminine 
accomplishments from Mrs. Chas. Montrose. 


Between these young girls there was a strange contrast 
and no less strange resemblance. This might be asserted 
even of their personal appearance, but was yet more true of 
their mental traits. Isabella's erect form the haughty car- 
riage of her little head, with its raven curls drooping around 
a face whose large black eyes, delicate yet well cut features 
and glowing coloring, would have enchanted a painter, 
seemed in every particular the perfect opposite of the gentle 
Alice, with her soft brown curls falling on either side of a 
face of lily-like fairness, only relieved from insipidity by the 
earnest expression of the dove-like eyes of dark gray, and 
by the intellect which sat throned on the broad though not 
high forehead. They were certainly most unlike in individual 
feature, and yet there was a certain something about them, 
none could define what, which marked them as of one family 
and caused them generally to be supposed sisters. So in 
mental features, Isabelle was usually more rapid in her per- 
ceptions, Alice more deeply reflective ; Isabelle more quick in 
impulse and decided in action, Alice not colder, but more 
timid and hesitating, yet exhibiting, when once thoroughly 
aroused, a strength of emotion and a tireless perseverance 
in the pursuit of the object that interested her, which made 
her seem for a time the leader of her more energetic cousin. 

In Charles and Donald Montrose the differences of cha- 
racter and person were less marked ; both were handsome 
boys, talented, daring, active, strongly attached to each 
other, and looking forward with all the buoyant hopes and 
high aspirations of youth to the future which lay in glorious 
promise before them. 



" And this life that we receive 
Is a gloomy thing and brief, 
Which consummated in griefs, 
Leaving ashes for all gain, 
Is it not all in vain ?" 

" ALL ye are brethren," thus spake the Divine Teacher, and 
the teaching is corroborated by every day's events. Clothed 
in purple and fine linen, Dives sweeps by the Lazarus wait- 
ing at his gate to catch the crumbs that may fall from his 
table, but Death lays his hand alike on both, for he sees that 
they are both children of him to whom it was said, " Dust 
thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return." " I am of the 
chivalrous South," says one, and " I am of the enterprising 
North," cries another. " Ye are both men born to sorrow 
as the sparks fly upward," whispers a " still, small voice" to 
each as he stands beside some just closed grave, or returns 
with slow, sad steps to the house which " has been left unto 
him desolate !" 

On another February evening, three years later than that 
on which we stood beneath a soft, star-lit sky, to await the 
approach of the messenger of evil tidings to Montrose Hall, 
the family of Edward Grahame, a broken manufacturer, were 
assembled to watch beside his bed of death in a room whose 
shutterless windows scarce kept at bay the cold, sleety storo 
of a New England winter, raging without. 


" Is Robert come ?" asked the feeble voice of the dying 

" Not yet, father," answered a young girl at his side. 
" You know he cannot leave the factory till eight o'clock it 
is just that now." 

"Send him to me as soon as he comes," was again breathed 
in a hoarse whisper, and then, except a sigh of exhaustion or 
a low moan of pain from the dying man, nothing was heard 
but the monotonous ticking of the wooden clock upon the 
mantel-piece and the beating of the sleet and rain against 
the windows. 

In the few minutes thus measured out before the appear- 
ance of Robert Grahame, let us examine the room and its 
inmates. The room was small, the ceiling low, the plaster- 
ing rough, and the windows, as we have already said, without 
shutters its whole appearance being such as would cause it 
to be readily recognized, at the present time, as belonging to 
the class of buildings most frequently appropriated to the 
laboring classes, and which, of necessity, grow up rapidly in 
the neighborhood of a factory. The windows were shaded 
by curtains of a coarse cotton, called Hummums, the floor 
was uncarpeted, except just at the bedside, where lay a faded 
rug. The whole furniture consisted of a few painted wooden 
chairs, a cherry wash-stand and bureau, a small looking-glass 
framed in coarse Honduras mahogany, hung above the bu- 
reau, and a pine bedstead, in whose ample supply of pillows 
and blankets all of comfort that the room contained seemed 
concentrated. There rested the stalwart frame of one who 
had battled stoutly with life, and who was now said to be 
dying of consumption ; though he himself and his family 
thought that his disease had assumed this fatal aspect only 
because his strength had been wasted in gigantic but fruit- 
less efforts to retrieve his failing fortunes, and that, in the 
crush of long-cherished hopes, the springs of life had given 


Beside liis bed watched a young girl of ten, and a boy 
about two years older. The girl, young as she was, seemed to 
be her father's nurse occasionally handing him drink, or 
performing some of those little offices which suffering hu- 
manity claims and seldom fails to raceive at the hand of 
love. All was done by her in silence and with the quiet air 
of one accustomed to the performance of such duties. The 
boy had rested his head upon the bed and slept. A light, 
elastic, yet vigorous step was heard below the windows there 
was character even in that step, it expressed energy, decision 
and the hopefulness of youth. A low quick summons on 
the street door ' : It is Robert," said the young nurse as she 
glided from the room to admit him ; and in a very few min- 
utes, having only waited to throw off his wet cloak, and warm, 
his chilled hands, a youth whose lip was just shadowed by 
the down of opening manhood, though his brow was heavy 
with the cares of a maturer age, entered the chamber and 
stood beside the bed. 

" How are you, father?" he asked in a voice full of ten- 
der and sad feeling, as he bent above the pillow of the in- 

" Dying my son," answered a deep, hollow voice. 

" Oh father ! I hope not I have brought you some jel- 
ly Mary is getting it ready for you you are exhausted, 
and will feel better when you have eaten." 

" Nothing will ever make me better, Robert. I may live 
some days or only some hours, but I know my death is not 
far distant, and I wish to speak to you while I can command 
my thoughts and give them expression in words." 

Here the speaker was interrupted by a hollow cough, 
which for several minutes shook his feeble frame, and left him 
exhausted, almost breathless. The first sound of that cough 
brought his daughter again to his side ; and as soon as he was 
quiet, she presented some of the jelly of which her brother 
had spoken. It was a delicacy for which the dying man had 


expressed a strong desire for some days past a desire which 
his impoverished children had been unable to gratify. He 
now received it with avidity, and ate with seeming enjoyment 
the few spoonfuls brought to him. As he lay down again up- 
on his pillow, he asked, " How did you get it, Robert ?" 

" It is Saturday night, you know ; all who are employed at 
the factory, are paid off on Saturday, father." 

"And you have spent your money on this luxury for 

" Only a very little, father we have enough left to sup- 
ply all our wants for a week to come." 

" You must think nothing too little to be saved, Robert ; 
it is of this I would speak to you, my son. My poor boy ! 
you have given up the studies you so delighted in. you have 
bound yourself to distasteful labor " 

" Oh no, father ! not distasteful I love it." 

The invalid seemed not to heed the interruption " And 
now," he continued, " you must curb your generous spirit and 
teach it to hoard. It is of this I would speak to you, my dear 
Robert, ' The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the 
children,' aye ; even though they be only sins of ignorance. 
I have not willingly defrauded any man I have not kept 
back the hire of the laborer yet there are men, this day, 
when I am dying in poverty, who curse me in their hearts" 
His voice faltered, ceased and tears rolled down his cheeks. 

" Dear father !" exclaimed Robert softly, as with that re- 
verence to which sorrow ever moves a fine spirit, he bowed 
his lips to the emaciated hand that lay upon the beJ. He 
could say nothing to comfort that sorrow, for he had already 
learned enough of the hard measure dealt by the world to 
the unsuccessful, to know that his father's impressions of the 
feelings entertained to him by many, were scarcely exagge- 
rated. His sister with happier ignorance was indignant with 
him, that he should not contradict these impressions 


" Father," she cried, " how can you speak so ! you whom 
no one ever suspected of a thought that was not honorable." 

There was comfort in her words aye, though he knew 
them mistaken ; for they told him that in one heart, at least, 
his image would be preserved bright and unclouded. A soft 
smile hovered on his lips, and he turned his eyes tenderly, 
almost thankfully, upon her, though the next moment he 
said, " Ah, Mary ! you know little of mankind but leave me 
now, my daughter, I must talk to Robert of business while 
he is with me, you may sleep. Let Richard go too, if you 
can wake him," and he looked at the boy, who, through all 
the movements in the room had never stirred. The daugh- 
ter hesitated, and glanced at her elder brother, with an ex- 
pression which made him whisper, " Go, Mary, to-morrow will 
be Sunday, and I can sleep then." 

Exhausted by many nights of watching, Mary at length 
consented to this arrangement. While Robert roused the 
sleeping Richard, and sent him stumbling from the room, 
declaring, as he went, most energetically, and no doubt with 
the firmest faith in his own assertion, that " he had not 
slept a wink," and that " he was not in the least sleepy," Mary 
prepared the medicines and nourishment, which her father 
might require during the night. Then with a lingering pres- 
sure of her lips upon his forehead, and an affectionate " good 
night " to Robert, she left the room. Mr. Grahame's eyes 
followed her retreating form, till the closing door had shut 
it from his sight, then, turning to Robert, he said, " You 
must be both father and brother to her, my son you will 
never let her want, Robert ?" 

" Never, father, while I live and have the power to work 
for her." 

" I am sure of it, Robert but there is another object, 
one that will perhaps interest you less, for which you must 
promise me to live and to work ; Robert, I cannot die with- 


out laying a charge upon you it is a bitter pang to burden 
you thus you will perhaps think me unkind but how can 
I bear to think that other homes are desolated, other fathers 
struggling, sinking, because of my mistakes?" 

The dying man's frame shook with agitation. Robert 
knelt beside the bed. awed by the agony he witnessed " Fa- 
ther," he said, " tell me what you would have me do, and 
my life shall be devoted to its accomplishment." 

" Pay my debts, Robert." 

"How, father? how can I do this?" 

" Not this year nor the next nor the next, Robert 
but little by little working, saving, hoarding it will be 
done at last. Is it too much I ask, my son too much it 
is your life ; but did I not tell you the sins of the fathers 
are visited upon the children ?" 

He spoke with a wild, half-delirious manner, and Rob- 
ert hastened to soothe him. " Oh no ! father it is not too 
much to ask you have not sinned, and this is no judgment. 
Nay," he added, with an enthusiasm which the circumstan- 
ces were well calculated to excite in a generous heart, " is it 
not a blessing to have so noble an object for which to live ? 
I will live for it, father I will work save hoard for it, 
and I promise you, if God spare my life, it shall be done." 

" G-od bless you ! He will bless you, my son !" 

" He has blessed me, father I feel happier than I have 
done since our sorrows came upon us." 

" It is the reflection of the peace you have given me, my 
son a mountain is lifted from my breast I breathe freely 
I shall sleep to-night." 

He did sleep, and awoke refreshed calmer stronger. 
For days his children almost persuaded themselves that the 
nearly extinguished flame of life would be rekindled. It 
was a delusive hope. In little more than a week, Robert 
Grahame repeated his vow with his hand resting on that of 


the dead, and as he turned away from the humble and un- 
marked grave to which very few persons had followed the 
bankrupt manufacturer, he stilled the spasm, that contracted 
his heart, with the thought, " He shall have a noble monu- 
ment yet." . 



" Each footstep of your treading 
Treads out some murmur which ye heard before ; 
Farewell ! the trees of Eden 
Ye shall hear never more." 

MILTON feared that he had been born an age too' late; Ed- 
ward Grahame might with more propriety have mourned the 
destiny which had sent him into the world so early. At a 
period when American manufactures were little more than 
a dream, he entertained the faith that only in the conjunc- 
tion of manufactures and agriculture, could the financial in- 
dependence of his country be attained. He proved his faith, 
by risking his all upon its realization. The factory for cot- 
ton and woollen cloths which he established upon the banks 
of the Connecticut would be thought but a rude affair at the 
present day, but in 1813, when steam engines and spinning 
jennies were still novelties on this side the Atlantic, it was 
the admiration and wonder of all who saw it. Admiration 
of the work, however, does not always imply respect for him 
to whom it owes its existence ; and most of those who saw 
Edward Grahame's cotton and woollen mills, qualified their 
praise of the beauty of the machinery and the skill of the 
workmen, by a covert sneer or a friendly regret at the risk 
of so much capital on a yet untried adventure. For a time, 
however, every thing promised prosperity to the mill and its 


owner. The war with England and the interruption of our 
commerce which had preceded it, had greatly elevated the 
price of European fabrics, and depressed that raw material 
which we had been accustomed to exchange for them. No 
period could have been more favorable for domestic manu- 
factures, and accordingly, for a year or two, Edward Gra- 
hanie bought his cotton at a low price and sold his cloths 
readily at a fair valuation. The most sturdy opponents of 
his theories began to acknowledge their wisdom, at least, in 
this individual instance, as, day by day, they saw wagon 
loads of cloths sent off to be shipped for New-York and Bos- 
ton, for Charleston and Savannah. Even his timid wife 
ceased to look frightened, as he talked of adding new looms 
and spindles to his factory. But peace was declared the 
ports of England were thrown open to us the cotton which 
had lain so long useless in the store-houses of the planter 
rose suddenly to an unprecedented price. That for which 
twenty-five or thirty cents had been thought a liberal offer 
was sold at fifty, seventy-five cents, or even at one dollar per 
pound. Nor was this the only trial to the home manufac- 
turer. The overstocked warehouses of England emptied 
themselves upon our shores, and the strong prejudices in fa- 
vor of foreign fabrics left the home manufacturer to a hope- 
less competition. Edward Grahame's was a sanguine tem- 
perament, and when he first felt the influence of this combi- 
nation of opposing circumstances, he said, " This is a tem- 
porary derangement of the natural course of events, pro- 
duced by unusual causes. The stream will soon return to its 
former channel. I will bide my time." According!}', in 
expectation of that better time, he stored the cloths, which 
he would not sell at reduced prices. But the time did not 
come, or at least it came too late for him. The greatest 
minds are frequently mistaken not in the principles they 
espouse not in their anticipation of the ultimate triumph 


of those principles but in the time at which their hopes 
shall be fulfilled. " Of the times and the seasons knoweth 
no man." The laws of the human mind the principles to 
which it must ultimately yield its assent these are within 
our ken but the events by which those principles shall be 
pressed upon its notice, and offered as it were to its decision, 
these belong to the secret things of God. Edward Grahame 
said to his patient, trusting wife, when the cloud upon his 
fortunes first threw its shadow on his home, " It is but for a 
little while a few months and all will be bright again" 
but months stretched into years till ten years had passed, 
and ever more the cloud grew heavier, the shadow deeper. 
Ere it had darkened into night she was taken away from the 
evil to come. 

Three months before the death of his mother, Robert 
Grahame had been recalled from the college, at which his fine 
talents and noble nature had already won "golden opinions" 
from his teachers and associates, to aid in propping the fall- 
ing fortunes of his house. He came reluctantly, and only 
the gentle soothings of his mother could soften the bitter- 
ness with which he found himself compelled, at his father's 
command, to relinquish the elegant pursuits of the scholar 
for the din and dust of the factory. 

" If my father designed me for a manufacturer, it is a 
pity he should ever have awakened in me the refined tastes 
which belong to a different sphere," he said sullenly one 
day to his mother, when he had been reproached for want of 
attention to that part of the business lately assigned to 
him. No answer was made to his taunt, but his heart 
smote him as he glanced at his mother and saw a tear steal 
unheeded down her pale cheek. With one of those sudden 
impulses to which youth is prone, he threw himself on his 
knees beside her, and dropping his head upon her bosom, 
sobbed out all the sorrow which he had thought it unmanly 
to express, but which he could no longer restrain. 


" Dear mother ! must I give up all noble thoughts and 
hopes, to become a spinner and weaver, or a smith with 
sooty face arid hands hammering on iron all my life 1 I 
who thought no ! no ! let my father leave his wealth to 
Richard and Mary. I only asked an education from him, and 
even that I am willing to pay for by my own labor, but I 
cannot consent to lead a life in which all intellect and refine- 
ment must be lost." 

Mrs. Grahame was a tender mother, and as she felt her 
son's tears wet her bosom and his heart throb against her 
own in all the abandonment of a first passionate sorrow, she 
could only drop her head upon his and weep with him ; but 
at length, subduing her own emotion that she might soothe 
his, she said, " Listen to me, dear Robert, and I will tell 
you what you should have known before. I am convinced, 
my dear boy, that you have a nature capable of making 
great sacrifices cheerfully, when you feel them to be neces- 
sary to the happiness or the well-being of those you love. 
Knowing this I would have told you sooner what you are 
about to hear, but your father so shrank from giving you 

" Shrank from giving me pain !" exclaimed Robert, "and 
yet he " 

" Hush ! Robert, listen to me before you speak of him 
again. He has been ever an indulgent father to you. proud 
of your talents and sympathizing in your hope of a high 
career, but Robert, you spoke just now of his wealth what 
if I tell you that he has none, that our very home is ours 
no longer, and shelters us but by the sufferance of his 
creditors that he did not withdraw you from college till 
he was no longer able to pay your bills there, and that he 
would now interest you in manufactures as the only career 
in which he can aid you." 

Robert raised his head and gazed silently in his mother's 
face, surprised, bewildered by what he heard. For an instant 


Mrs. Grahame met that gaze, then, as tears rushed to her 
eyes, she strove to hide them by pressing her quivering lips 
to his forehead. Her emotion dissipated every doubt it 
was no dream, no fancy, this sudden change in the aspect of 
his life. With conviction of its reality, came thoughts, not 
of himself, but of her. 

" Darling mother !" he exclaimed, no longer resting his 
head upon her bosom, but supporting her by the arm which 
he had thrown around her, " be comforted. We will all 
work for you you shall never know want." 

" I do not fear it, Robert," she replied. " It is for you 
for my children only I have grieved." 

She did not add what yet was in her mind, that she 
should soon be taken to her eternal home a home to which 
neither want nor care has entrance. She would not chill 
his heart or enfeeble his energies by sad forebodings. Her 
object had been to arouse and to direct those energies. 
They were aroused and now she added, " Sit by me, Robert, 
and let us talk more quietly of the future. You spoke a 
few minutes since of relinquishing all noble thoughts and 
aspirations " 

" That was said in ignorance, mother, when I supposed 
the desire of wealth was the only object proposed by my 
father for my future life now that I have you to work 
for " he paused and met his mother's earnest gaze with a 
bright, happy smile. 

" You feel that with a generous object in view an 
object to be attained only by utter self-sacrifice, you have 
that from which the noblest thoughts, the highest aspira- 
tions spring. Is it not so, Robert ?" 

" Not quite, dear mother, for there is no self-sacrifice in 
laboring for you ; that one thought will make all labor 

Again the mother's eyes filled with tears, and she press- 


ed her lips to that bright, open brow, and murmured, " That 
must not be your only motive, my son, or what will you do 
when our Father in Heaven takes me where there is neither 
want nor labor ?" 

The bright face was saddened in an instant. Robert's 
lips quivered, and his bosom heaved with a sob which only 
the fear, that it was unmanly, gave him power to suppress. 

" You will never want a motive for cheerful exertion 
while your father lives. You will not add to the bitterness 
of his disappointment in the plans and calculations of a life, 
by showing him that his mistake has inflicted misery on his 

" My poor father ! No, dear mother, he shall never be 
made more unhappy by me." 

u Bless you, my son, for that assurance. You will be 
true to your pledge, I know; nor will it be so difficult a task 
as you now imagine you already see that noble thoughts, 
generous purposes, and the highest of all aspirations, that of 
living for the happiness of others, are not incompatible with the 
life of a manufacturer; you will find in time that, though you 
may not make as great scholastic attainments in your present 
career as in a profession which demands these attainments 
as a preparatory course, you may acquire as valuable a 
mental culture and as true refinement. I see you are in- 
credulous of this, but trust me it is so you need not even 
entirely relinquish your classical studies." 

" Why should I continue them ?" 

" Because of the pleasure they have always afforded you, 
and because of their influence in forming your mind and 
elevating your taste." 

But we need not dwell farther on this conversation. 
Suffice it to say, that before Mrs. Grahame's anticipations of 
her own early removal were fulfilled, she had seen her son 
performing his duties without apparent reluctance, and ar- 


ranging for himself a plan of study in his few hours of lei- 
sure, which, if systematically pursued, would at least prevent 
his losing the advantage of his past devotion to study. 

Never did Robert Grahanie waver in the purpose thus 
pledged to his mother a purpose on which her death, 
quickly following, seemed to him to set a solemn seal. If 
he did not actually work at the forge, and we are not sure 
that he did not, he acquainted himself with all that was 
necessary to the fitting for their office those nice machines 
which have wrought such wonderful changes in our social 
life, and when the English machinist to whom his father was 
already largely in arrears, refused to remain with him longer, 
Robert took his place, supplying whatever was wanting to 
him of manual dexterity with the resources of a more intel- 
ligent mind, and a more thorough knowledge of the princi- 
ples of mechanics. 

The death of Mrs. Graham e precipitated the falling for- 
tunes of her husband, by at once diminishing the energy with 
which he had hitherto breasted the tide of disaster, and the 
patience with which his creditors had watched his efforts 
and awaited their result. As their tone of demand, no longer 
chastened by pity for the sufferings of a delicate woman, be- 
came more uncompromising, his confidence in himself and 
his resources became less, and weary of struggle, he would, 
but for the thought of his children, have gladly relinquished 
all. and " rested from his labors," even though he had found 
that rest in the grave. "We said, but for the thought of his 
children, but there was one other thought which united with 
this to nerve him to fitful and desperate effort it was that 
which lay heavy on him in his death-hour the thought that 
in his fall other homes would be desolate other hearts 
crushed. The feverish excitement engendered by such im- 
pulses soon sapped the life they seemed to feed. As he felt 
his strength departing, he called his principal creditors toge- 


ther, explained to them his designs, and placed before them 
the books, which told a fearful tale of impending bankruptcy, 
while he endeavored to inspire them with somewhat of his 
own confidence in the ultimate success of his hitherto disas- 
trous experiment. " I am passing away," he said in conclu- 
sion, " other hands must reap what I have sown but the 
harvest will be abundant to him who has faith and patience. 
I stand not here to ask your forbearance for myself, or even 
for my helpless and most innocent children, but for your- 
selves. All I have my house and its furniture my mills 
and machinery are yours take possession of them I ask not 
the delay of an hour but let the mills still do their work. 
They will repay you, even though you should be compelled 
to make further advances on them, while, if sold now, your 
loss must be reckoned in thousands." 

" But we know nothing of manufactures nor is it easy 
to find one who does even were we willing to risk more 
capital, to whom could we confide our interest, since you de- 
clare yourself no longer equal to the demands made by the 
business on your strength ?" was asked. 

" My son has been engaged with me for more than a year 
he understands my plans he has acquainted himself with 
mechanics practically as well as theoretically make him 
your agent." 

Some of the men to whom he spoke knew Robert G-ra- 
hame well, they had seen his untiring diligence for the last 
year, and only that morning had marked the perfect order 
reigning in the factory under his management. They 
felt that Mr. Grahame's proposition was decidedly the best 
that could be suggested. 



" Condemned to stem the world's rude tide, 
You may not linger by the side ; 
For Fate shall thrust you from the shore, 
And passion ply the sail and oar." 

THAT golden age which seems to our faithless hearts a poet's 
dream, has it not once been a reality to each of us 1 Our 
life may be now a grim battle piece, but somewhere in Mem- 
ory's tablets there is pictured a scene like some joyous idyl, 
a scene in which beneath soft summer skies we danced 
with nymphs and fawns in greenwood shades, or reposed on 
flowery banks dreaming glorious dreams of the fair world 
that lay beyond us. And that moment that long expected 
moment when the curtain which shut out that world was to 
be uplifted when the fruit of the tree of knowledge was 
plucked but still untasted when a voice within us said, 
" Eat and ye shall be as gods," what a moment of triumph 
was that ! Those who have lived beyond it know the fal- 
lacy of its bright hopes know that the whisper is from the 
arch-tempter, that when, ceasing to make obedience the 
principle of our lives, we rise up in our pride to assert that 
we too are made in the image of God, with reason to per- 
ceive and will to decide, ah ! we know that the next act of 
the drama will close upon us the gates of our flowery Eden, 


and send us forth to win our bread by the sweat of our brows 
from a world which shall bring forth spontaneously only 
thorns and briers. Yet, with this knowledge burned as it 
were into our hearts by the sharp fires of our own experience, 
the old dreaui comes back, and our pulses bound with exult- 
ing sympathy as we see another of our race stand on that 
pinnacle of hope. Dark and rough may be the descent into 
the valley beyond, but there all is bright. 

By some this point is reached earlier, by others later 
in life. Few have arrived at it so early as Charles Mon- 

For five years Charles and Alice had lived at Montrose 
Hall, apparently as free to all its comforts, pleasures, and 
advantages as were Isabelle and Donald. Together in the 
early morning they were accustomed to walk through the 
woodland path that led to the cottage of the good Mr. Dun- 
bar ; whom they alike loved and revered. The boys had 
read together the odes of Horace and the orations of Cicero, 
had puzzled side by side over the diagrams of Euclid, and 
were now beginning to feel the beauty of that language in 
which Homer sung and Plato reasoned. Recognizing no 
sex in mind, the good clergyman was leading Isabelle and 
Alice along the same road, except that for Horace he had 
substituted Tacitus, whose terse, elliptical sentences often 
drove them to seek for aid from their brothers. It was thus 
that Alice had applied one day to Charles, and after good- 
naturedly helping her through the difficulty, he exclaimed, 
" Ally, what on earth do you expect to do with all the Latin 
that Mr. Dunbar is crowding into this little head?" 

Ally shook back the curls which in grasping her head to 
prove how small it was, he had drawn over her face, and 
with a gay laugh replied, " Do with it ! Why what do you 
expect to do with your Latin and Greek ?" 

" That is a question, Ally, I should find it somewhat dif- 


ficult to answer," said Charles, as with sudden gravity he 
turned away and sauntered from the room. 

" Many a shaft at random sent, 
Finds mark the archer little meant." 

And the question Alice so carelessly asked had awakened a 
train of thought which Charles could not lull to sleep. After 
many vain efforts to answer this question himself, he sought 
assistance from those whose experience of life fitted them to 
be his guides. And first, he applied to his mother, but she 
could only look distressed and refer him to his uncle. The 
question came to her as a sphinx riddle which she had long 
and vainly sought to solve. To his uncle Charles went, and 
he proposed the question exactly as Alice had proposed it to 
him. " Uncle, what am I to do with all the Greek and Latin 
I am learning ?" 

" Do with it !" repeated Col. Montrose, " I do not under- 
stand you, Charles." 

" I mean, what use am I to make of it, uncle ?" 

" I am sure I cannot tell, Charles, it never seemed to 
me of the least use, but it is generally considered now-a- 
days as essential to a gentlemanly education, and therefore 1 
wished that you and Donald should study it. Besides, I 
thought that you liked your Greek and Latin. Have you 
grown weary of it ?" 

" Oh no, sir ! I like it very much, but I am now nearly 
seventeen, and I think it is time I should be doing some- 
thing, or at least preparing to do something not only for my- 
self, but for my mother and sister." 

" My dear boy," said Col. Montrose, as he looked with a 
pleased smile into the blushing face of the handsome boy, 
" do you think I shall ever permit you, or my pretty Alice, 
or your mother to want any thing that I shall not provide" 
for you?" 


" But uncle" 

" But nephew, wait till you are of age and then talk to 
me again on this subject, and I will satisfy you that I did 
not mean only an empty name when I called myself your 

Charles was silenced, but not satisfied. This life of de- 
pendence on his uncle's bounty was not the life he had pro- 
posed for himself. He had been old enough at the death of 
his father to know something of the widely differing opin- 
ions of his two uncles in respect to his career, and it was the 
dream of his boyhood to give a practical refutation of what, 
in the fervor of his spirit, he characterized as the sordid 
views of his uncle Browne, by attaining a situation of profit 
and honor under the guidance of his uncle Montrose. It 
was not only wealth and social position which he desired. 
He would feel that these had been won by the exercise of 
his own powers, on the honorable arena to which the gen- 
erous patronage of his uncle Montrose had secured him an 
entrance. The prospect which this conversation with Col. 
Montrose presented to him of a life of uneventful repose and 
indolent dependence was therefore far from pleasing to him. 
He knew not how to state his objections ; but they were not 
the less deeply felt, because they were felt in silence. His 
studies lost somewhat of their charm. They were less pleas- 
antly, and therefore, less successfully pursued.' Mr. Dun- 
bar's observation was thus excited, and in him Charles found 
a sympathizing and judicious friend. The life of Mr. Dunbar 
had been one of struggle, and he had not outlived the mem- 
ory of those visions whose impulse had launched him on his 
career and had long propelled him in it. Those visions had 
proved but " baseless fabrics," yet he acknowledged even 
now that they had not been valueless, since they had sup- 
plied stimulus to his energies which he should else have 
lacked. He believed that Charles Montrose would find a 


like stimulus in the desire to do honor to the judgment of 
the uncle who had sheltered his childhood, and to achieve an 
independence, however humble, for his mother and sister as 
well as for himself, and that thus straining every nerve, he 
would become a far nobler being, and would accomplish far 
more for the world and for himself, than if he should spend 
a life even of moderate activity in a sphere to which his un- 
cle's wealth had won him an easy entrance, and where that 
wealth should continue to supply whatever accustomed in- 
dulgences he should fail to earn for himself or those dear to 
him. All this Mr. Dunbar presented to Col. Montrose with 
a force of reasoning to which Charles would have been him- 
self unequal. 

" Do you mean to counsel me," asked Col. Montrose, 
with some impatience in his tone, " to leave my brother's 
son to work his way unaided through a world, which you and 
I know to be far different from that which his inexperienced 
imagination paints ?" 

" By no means," answered the good clergyman warmly. 
" I am not the man to give such counsel, and if I were, you 
are the last of all the earth to whom I should offer it." 

" May I inquire then what you do mean, for I acknow- 
ledge I do not understand you." 

" I mean that, instead of removing all responsibilites from 

Charles, and training him up to a life of luxurious indolence 

" I have no such intention," interrupted Col. Montrose. 
" I mean year by year, as I grow older, to indulge myself 
more, and leave the business more entirely in his and Don- 
ald's hands." 

" And if you left it all in his hands, my dear sir, what 
employment would it give to the energies of youth ?" 

" Let me tell you, sir, the proper management of a planting 
interest, such as mine, may employ the energies of any man." 


" Not while it is the custom to manage it by proxy. To 
receive the reports of an overseer and direct his movements, 
you will confess is no great labor." 

u Well he may be my overseer himself, if he is so anx- 
ious to work." 

" And so he might, were he twenty years older, and 
would you give him full power to manage in all things as he 
should think fit. He might then work out the most difficult 
problem, not absolutely incapable of solution, which has yet 
been submitted to the human intellect how the slave may 
be elevated to the condition of an intelligent, accountable 
being, without detriment to the master's interest ; but a 
youth of seventeen could not fight against the whole force of 
the social current surrounding him, and Charles would sink, 
in spite of your efforts to prevent it, to the level of an over- 
seer, and what is worse, he would sink to the character of 

" And if he were as good a man as Mr. Ferguson " 

" But he would not be as good a man. His spirit would 
be broken and his temper soured by supposed degradation." 

" Well well we need argue that question no farther, 
as I should be as unwilling as any one to see him an over- 
seer. I only named it as something that he might employ 
his superabundant activity upon, until he should grow tired 
of it no very long time, I suspect. But as this will not 
do, what do you propose for him 1 ?" 

" I propose nothing he has himself suggested the navy." 

" True to the family instincts for a military life and he 
really expects to support himself, his mother and sister on a 
midshipman's pay ?" 

" Not quite, but he hopes to make this the first step to a 
position in which he may support them." 

" A very forlorn hope, for the fulfilment of which, he 
must at the best wait some dozen years." 


" Do you think so ? Our navy has been much increased 
since the war." 

" It has reached the greatest increase it will attain for many 
years, or I am much mistaken. Notwithstanding the popu- 
larity obtained by its successes in the war of eighteen hundred 
and twelve, the stern discipline necessary to render it effec- 
tive, will prevent any enduring partiality for it in a people 
so impatient of control as ours. However, be this as it may. if 
Charles wishes to enter the navy, he shall have my hearty con- 
sent to do so, and my aid too I feared he was thinking of sell- 
ing tapes and ribbons, like that Yankee uncle of his. A true, 
manly, spirit, will find the naval service no sinecure as my 

friend Capt. says, it is a dog's life, but it is after all 

the best life with us for a poor gentleman /" 

" I may tell him, then, that you accede to his wishes." 

" I will tell him so myself." 

And thus this affair, so important to the future life of 
Charles Montrose, was completed ; for an application from 
Col. Montrese to a friend in Congress was quickly answer- 
ed by the warrant for his nephew, which he desired. 

The mother of Charles wept his approaching departure, 
but submitted to it with the resignation which an experience 
of deeper sorrows had wrought into her nature. Alice sym- 
pathized with all his bright hopes, rejoiced with him at the ar- 
rival of his warrant, felt her heart swell with heroic pride when 
he first assumed his uniform, meditated on Roman daughters 
and Spartan mothers as proper models for herself, and when 
the moment of parting came, threw herself with a wild 
burst of sorrow into his arms, and was inconsolable for days 
after his departure. In all her sorrow Isabelle sympathized 
while Donald almost envied Charles his independence, and 
determined to give his father no rest, till he should procure 
a warrant for him too. This was a resolution, however, 
built on too feeble a basis, to withstand the opposition of 


bis parents, the sorrowful entreaties of Isabelle and Alice, 
and the indolence of his own nature. 

This indolence was a marked feature in Donald's char- 
acter. Overpowered at moments by the impetuosity of his 
passions, it resumed its empire as the storm subsided. Un- 
der its influence, he had resisted the efforts made by his mo- 
ther and Mr. Dunbar, to induce him to enter college, and fit 
himself for some professional pursuit. In his opposition to 
their expostulations, he had been strengthened, it is true, by 
his father's passive influence. 

" What did Donald want with a profession ? There was 
the home and the fortune which had been sufficient for him 
were they not sufficient for Donald and Isabelle ? As to 
occupation, if Donald would give some attention to the plan- 
tation, he could easily fill up the remaining hours with hunt- 
ing, fishing, and, if he chose, with reading. The world was 
overstocked already with doctors and lawyers, and he must 
confess he had no desire to see his son add to the number." 

So reasoned Col. Montrose, if reasoning it may be called. 

It was at last the impulse of a moment, which in this, as 
in other things, decided Donald's career. A young Virgin- 
ian, a connection of Mrs. John Montrose, had been ordered 
to Savannah with a corps of dragoons, to which he was at- 
tached. At twenty-three, Lieut. Wharton, with the ardent 
impulses of youth, had the fixed opinions and resolute pur- 
pose of manhood. His enthusiasm in his profession was 
such, as might have become the most valiant knights of he- 
roic time. The true soldier was, in his opinion, the succes- 
sor to the valorous knight, and, like him, he was bound to be 
"sans peur et sans reproche" the vowed defender of the 
right, the chivalrous protector of the weak, and the enemy 
of the oppressor. A countenance of noble expression, a fine 
military bearing, and his skill in manly exercises, recom- 
mended him to all at Montrose Hall, he soon became a 


general favorite. He talked with Mrs. John Montrose of 
her early home, with Col. Montrose of military affairs, and 
of modern improvements in the science of engineering with 
Mr. Dunbar. He rode, and sketched, with Isabelle and 
Alice. He hunted with Donald, and completely won his 
heart by teaching him to fence ; and when, at the conclusion 
of his last lesson, he said. " you should be a soldier, Donald ; 
a good soldier is the world's true ruler, and you look born 
for a ruler," Donald vowed, that come what would, a sol- 
dier he would be. 

A purpose so earnest, rarely fails of accomplishment ; 
and about two years after the departure of Charles, Donald 
too passed from the golden into the silver age quickly too 
quickly to be succeeded by one of iron. 


WE cannot 


"This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is a' enchanted, fairy land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That wielded right, 
Maks hours, like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light." 

r E cannot pause on the details of the few following years 
of the life of Charles Montrose. The habits of careless ex- 
penditure contracted in his southern home had made it diffi- 
cult indeed for him to live within the pay of a midshipman, 
then only eighteen dollars monthly. But debt incurred 
once, and once only, had brought with it such bitter suffer- 
ing, he had borne so much of conflict with himself, before he 
could make the application to his uncle which justice to 
others at last compelled an application involving the humili- 
ating confession that he had failed in his purpose, and over- 
estimated his strength that the vow then made was never 
forgotten. He knew that many a thoughtless messmate 
looked disdainfully upon him for a rigid economy, which 
was attributed by many amongst them to his Yankee blood, 
yet he never faltered in his determination. While gaining 
strength Jby this discipline, he was losing softness. The 
bright, joyous face of the boy was becoming stern and hard, 
the frank, confiding manner, reserved and cold. Had he 
felt less, he would have expressed more. 


Less change had been wrought by the same time on 
Donald Montrose ; for the sea of life had borne for him an 
almost unruffled surface. An only child, heir to large es- 
tates, surrounded by dependents eager to propitiate the 
future master, he could scarcely fail to become indolent, self- 
indulgent and exacting. Yet, that with a sufficient motive 
he could exercise no small degree of self-control, had been 
proved by his endurance of the discipline of West Point, 
opposed as it was to all his habits of feeling and action. 
This endurance had surprised his most partial friends, and 
perhaps, his perseverance in it was, in some degree, the re- 
sult of their confident prophecies of his failure. His fine na- 
tural powers had been developed extensively though irregu- 
larly. Classical tastes had been early instilled into his 
mind by Mr. Dunbar, and the thorough mathematical train- 
ing of West Point now did all which mental culture could 
do, to give him power for the guidance of his erratic im- 
pulses. His ambition had supplied the spur to his faculties 
which indolence made needful, and when the day arrived on 
which the examiners appointed by the country to whose fos- 
tering care this military academy owes its existence, were to 
sit as judges on his class, none doubted Donald's success, but 
himself. From him, the proud, buoyant confidence of months 
died away, as he met the calm, searching eyes which seemed 
to read his mind and take the gauge of its dimensions. 

There were G-en. S tt ; known by his towering height 

and fine martial head, before his name was announced, Col. 

C h, whose clear, truthful eye and honest face would have 

won trust from an enemy, and Col. B d, whose looks were 

sterner than his heart. All the rough experiences of Don. 
alds's after life never obliterated from his memory the hour 
in which he stood before these men. 

He passed passed triumphantly. His name stood fore- 
most on the list of his class, and true to the affections of his 


home, his first thought was " my father my mother Isa- 
belle Alice," his first act to dispatch a letter, which, as 
furnishing a fair picture of his mind, we give below. 

WEST POINT, June 10th, 18 . 

The long agony is over, and I am number one so please 
to write me down a Lieutenant of Dragoons. I might enter 
the corps of Topographical Engineers, but I prefer a thou- 
sand times the life of a " bold dragoon." Wharton is here, 
and I am off imtanter with him for the Springs Saratoga, 
I mean, of course to rub off the rust I have contracted 
here, and fit myself for an escort to Alice and Isabelle on 
their introduction to the gay world here this summer, which 
I consider as their " coming out." Tell them to look their 
loveliest for the honor of the South. They must wait till 
they come to New-York for the purchase of fineries, for what- 
ever they bring from Georgia will be passd here. 

I shall be in New-York on the 28th, which, as you 
sail on the 25th, will be probably some days before your ar- 
rival. I shall secure rooms for you at the City Hotel, and 
be on the look-out for the good ship Statira. Until you 
have been like me two years without seeing a home face or 
hearing a home voice, you cannot imagine how I long to see 
you. I wish Mr. Dunbar could come with you. I know he 
will be delighted with my success, which, I am sure, I owe 
in no small degree to him. 

Have you heard from Charles lately ? 

I hear voices and steps on the stairs some good fellows 
coming to congratulate me, and I shall have no more time 
to write. Pray give a holiday and a dinner to the whole plan- 
tation, to celebrate my success. I am so happy myself, I 
would make every body else happy good bye, 

Your affectionate son, 


Montrose Hall, which we once saw shrouded with gloom, 
we might mow present to the reader, sparkling with present 
pleasure, and gay with glad anticipation. Except the soci- 
ety of their own hospitable home, and that in which they 
mingled during a winter residence of six weeks in Savannah, 
Isabelle and Alice had seen nothing of the world, and now 
they were about to launch at once into its splendors. The 
North, unpopular as it has ever been in the eyes of the 
Southern statesman though, even now, it appears to a 
thorough-bred Southerner a great collection I will not say 
of sharpers but of very shrewd men of business, ready to 
take advantage at every turn of their easy good-nature and 
thoughtless generosity has always been to Southern youth 
of both sexes a name embodying months of more varied en- 
joyment than any other five letters in our language repre- 
sents. With these, the North means Saratoga, Niagara, and 
a few other places whither the wealthy, the idle and the gay, 
who have been driven from the South by fear of the fever, 
resort ; and whence Fashion, a ruler scarce less despotic than 
Fear, congregates her votaries, from cities infested by no 

We can no longer talk as poets were wont to do of the 
"languid heats" of summer, of the longing desire for the 
dash of waters, for the refreshing shades and freedom of the 
country, where we may indulge the delights of that " dolce 
far niente " which those heats induce. Far different are 
the pleasures now associated with summer in the minds of 
the world's leaders. You may spend your winter in seclusion 
without hazard to your reputation, but, on pain of eternal 
banishment from the world, beware of passing a summer at 
home, or resting from ;i laborious delights" during the months 
of July and August. 

But fashion had little to do with the pleasure of Isabelle 
and Alice in the prospect of their northern tour. That 



tour was to introduce them to new persons and places, and 
thus to enlarge indefinitely the materials out of which their 
hearts were busily weaving the romance of life life to them 
so beautiful. 

On the last evening they expected to spend at home they 
mounted their horses, and attended by " Daddy Cato," who 
had grown gray in faithful service, and to whose care Col. 
Montrose was never afraid to trust them, they rode off to 
the plantation to say farewell to some of the negroes too old 
and too feeble to visit them, and to take that last look, so 
dear and yet so sad, of the places they best loved. 

" Ah !" said Mrs. Charles Montrose, as she watched their 
receding forms from a window that overlooked the road they 
were pursuing, " will they come home in the fall with such 
light hearts ?" 

" Why should they not ?" asked her less thoughtful 
brother-in-law, who stood beside her. 



-"Why rejoices 

Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good ? 
Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood ?" 

AMONG the disappointments of earth, there are few so 
complete as the disappointment of our first voyage. " The 
sea the sea I love the sea" we have heard said or sing 
from our childhood the all encircling sea, image of the In- 
finite grand in repose terrible in wrath ! From childhood 
had Isabelle and Alice been familiar with its aspect and 
its voice, yet not the less did they long to find themselves 
cradled on its bosom, and lulled to rest by its melodies. 
But ere they had lost sight of land, and could feel them- 
selves fairly within the realm of Neptune, the mat de mer, 
that foe to sentiment, seized on them and kept them close 
prisoners in their state-room, careless alike of the sublime 
and the beautiful, till a blue line in the west marked the po- 
sition of the hills of Neversink and they caught the faint 
ray of the light-house not yet lost in the coming dawn. 
From this moment, all. was enjoyment enjoyment more vi- 
vid for the days of illness which had preceded it. Accustom- 
ed to the unvaried level of our southern sea-coast, the hills on 
the New Jersey shore, and even the green heights of Staten 
Island had for them somewhat of grandeur. Isabelle and 
Alice had each an open eye for beauty, and an open heart 


for its impressions. Isabella was a painter, and looked on 
nature with an artist's eye. Not a shadow on the hills, not 
a variaton in the tint of the foliage escaped her. She saw 
not only the beautiful whole, but each part which had contri- 
buted to produce it. Alice saw only the beautiful whole 
she could not analyze it, she could not depict it, out sne 
steeped her soul in its influences, and felt them thrilling 
through every nerve of her frame. 

The long arms of the telegraph at Staten Island bore to 
the city the information of their arrival, and they were still 
some miles distant when they were hailed by one of the 
many sail-boats with which the harbor was dotted. The 
boat drew near, a rope was flung from the ship, and the next 
moment Donald stood beside them on the deck ; not the boy 
from whom they had parted three years ago, but a man, 
with a man's beard upon his chin, and a man's soul of fire 
flashing from his eyes. For a while nothing else was seen 
or remembered, but, when the first excitement passed, they 
found Capt. Wharton had accompanied him, and now stood 
beside them, smiling in sympathy with their joy. 

We will not linger on their arrival, but suppose them 
emancipated from the confinement of the ship, escaped from 
the confusion of hackney-coaches and the crowd of bawling 
porters, and introduced to a pleasant suite of rooms at the 
City Hotel, which formerly stood in Broadway, just above 
Trinity Church. Their rooms included a private parlor, 
looking upon Broadway, to which Capt. Wharton, also a 
boarder at this Hotel, accompanied them, but, as it was near 
the dinner hour, he soon left the ladies to their preparation 
for that important occasion. Donald lingered a few minutes 
longer, that he might hold Isabelle and Alice again to his 
heart, might feel his father's hand laid again in blessing on 
his head, and his mother's lips upon his brow, and then 
turned from them all to kiss his aunt's cheek, as she sat 


quietly smiling upon them, and to tell her lie was sure that 
Charles would soon be at home. His heart is still true to 
its early affections. Are his principles sufficiently firm to 
resist the temptations by which the world would draw him 
from them ? If not, how many hearts shall suffer in his 

" Can we have a private table ?" asked Col. Montrose. 

" You can, but pray let us go to the table d'hote I want 
Isabelle and Alice to see and be seen," he added, with a 
laugh, after a moment's pause. " So look your loveliest for 
the honor of the South !" were his parting words to his sister 
and cousin. 

Useless exhortation ! What young and lovely woman 
ever failed to do justice to her charms ? All desire that 
beauty which was doubtless designed as the type of an inner 
and lovelier life. It is a legitimate desire. The mistake is 
to suppose that this beauty is a thing of form and coloring 
merely. These are but the vase, exquisitely painted, it 
may be. but if the light of the soul beam not through, it will 
win but a momentary admiration. Even Venus was not 
irresistible without her cestus. 

Donald must have been quite satisfied, we think, with the 
appearance of his sister and cousin when he called again, accom- 
panied by his friend Wharton, to conduct them to dinner, or, 
if he thought the bows of Isabelle's raven hair too small for 
fashion, and the style in which Alice had arranged her 
glossy brown locks, which she assured him curled too much 
to be bowed at all, quite too simple, he was reassured by 
the admiring glances their appearance excited, and before 
he left the table he became invulnerable even to the eye- 
glasses occasionally levelled at the heads he had criticised, 
by some lady in the height of the mode. 

In the evening Mrs. Wharton called with her nephew, 


and not only proffered her services, but with an easy noncha- 
lance quite astonishing to our Southern travellers, inquired 
their plans, and learning that their immediate destination 
was Saratoga, informed them that they would need a com- 
plete outfit, as nothing made in Savannah could by any pos- 
sibility be presentable there. The color rose for a moment 
to the brow of Mrs. John Montrose, but Mrs. Wharton qui- 
etly continued, " Were I a Northern woman, I would not 
dare to say such things to you, but I am a Virginian ; yet, I 
assure you, I would not think of wearing in Broadway, and 
still less, of course, at the Springs, any thing made in the Old 
Dominion for, if we ever had any dominion over fashion, we 
have certainly lost it." 

Mrs. Wharton herself looked like one of the latest prints 
of Paris fashions, endowed with life and set in motion. Her 
really handsome face looked out from a bonnet with a crown 
of most extraordinary altitude, and a huge poke, decorated 
with immense bows of very broad ribbon ; while her dress, 
with a waist immoderately long, and a skirt as immoderately 
short, showed to advantage a fine form, and to disadvantage 
a not very delicately moulded foot and ankle. 

To Mrs. Charles Montrose, this lady had little to say. 
The widow's cap and deep mourning, which she had never 
laid aside, seemed to render her case hopeless in Mrs. Whar- 
ton's eyes, but she was eloquent on the sin of covering up 
such beautiful hair as that of Mrs. John Montrose, and dis- 
guising such a form. 

" Why, my dear madam," she exclaimed, " excuse me 
for saying so but it makes you look at least forty." 

" I am forty-five," said Mrs. John Montrose, drawing up 
her fine figure with a somewhat haughty expression. 

Mrs. Wharton was two years older, it seemed to her ap- 
proaching too near a dangerous point to name forty-five, and 


she answered quickly and nervously, " Don't speak of it, my 
dear madam, don't speak of it, and nobody will suspect it 
that is, if you will dress as you should do." 

The next day and the next were spent chiefly in follow- 
ing this autocrat of fashion from Stuart's and Fountain's 
then the great rival merchants of Broadway to various 
mantuamakers, milliners and jewellers. Col. Montrose had 
given carte blanche to his children, and shopping with such 
resources was an employment too congenial to Mrs. Whar- 
ton's spirit not to be diligently pursued. It was to Isabelle 
that she at first exclusively devoted her cares. 

"Show me your bright-colored silks and gauzes," she 
said to the shopmen. " Bright colors always for brunettes) 
my dear," she added in an aside to Isabelle. 

" There, that lemon gauze is beautiful, fifteen yards of 
it, sir." 

"Will that be enough for both of us?" asked Isabelle, 
glancing at Alice. 

" Both ! Oh, no ! I did not think of your cousin ; does 
she want a gauze dress ?" 

" We always dress alike," said Isabelle, then appealing 
to Alice, " Do you like this ?" 

" Oh ! that will never do for your cousin," interrupted 
Mrs. Wharton, " the most delicate rose or cerulean gauze, 
and pearl-colored silks these are her colors." 

Col. Montrose had accompanied the ladies to Stuart's, 
and was just taking his leave, when this little dialogue 
arrested him. 

" I wish my children to dress alike," he said, with more 
determination of manner, than the subject seemed to de- 

"But, my dear sir, consider their complexions and 
styles are wholly different, and what would become Miss 


Montrose with her brilliant brunette complexion, raven 
hair, and queenly form, would make a perfect fright " 

Col. Montrose grew red. 

" Nothing could make a fright of my pretty Alice," he 
said, as, drawing his niece to his side, he looked down on 
her with a proud and admiring glance. 

Alice smiled up in those fond eyes and would have 
spoken, but Mrs. Wharton had perceived her error and 
hastened to correct it. 

" I quite agree with you," she exclaimed, quickly, " she 
is the prettiest little fairy in existence, and might have dis- 
puted Oberon's heart with Titania ; but not if you had in- 
sisted on her wearing the dress of Hypolita, Queen of the 

A little more well-timed raillery and a few adroit com- 
pliments, and Mrs. Wharton gained her point the more 
readily that Alice advocated her taste in selecting different 
colors for Isabelle and herself. Col. Montrose saw some 
dresses purchased for Alice of the same quality with those 
already chosen for Isabelle, and then took his leave, only 
whispering to his daughter, as he went, " See that Alice has 
every thing as handsome as yourself, Bella," 

Notwithstanding these little mistakes, Mrs. Wharton 
was invaluable. She was their good genius, from whom 
they hoped to receive the clew which would conduct them 
through all the windings of the labyrinth of fashionable 
society. Neither name, nor wealth, nor personal qualities 
would, without her aid, have gained them admittance to its 
inner recesses. They must have paused in its outer courts. 
Better so, than to become the prey of the Centaur dwelling 
in its midst. 

Mrs. Wharton offered to accompany her new friends to 
Saratoga. Never had she seemed so amiable in the eyes of 


her nephew, who had been just regretting that his promise 
to travel with her would prevent his attending them. 

They arrived at Saratoga in the afternoon. The United 
States Hotel was crowded, but their rooms had been engaged 
for a fortnight. Mrs. Wharton was a habitue of the Springs, 
and was immediately accosted by several of the most dis- 
tinguished-looking of those gentlemen who sat in the piazza 
or lounged about the grounds. 

" Who are your friends ?" asked Mr. Bidwell, a young 
exquisite, who had driven the handsomest carriage and 
horses seen in Broadway the last winter, and who was conse- 
quently an especial favorite of Mrs. Wharton that lady 
keeping no carriage herself. 

"A southern family Montrose good old name, and 
wealthy too ; there is a beautiful niece a handsome 
daughter too ; but do not lose your heart with her or 
it will be lost indeed." 

"A dangerous competitor to Edward," thought Mrs. 
Wharton, and like a good aunt, she strove to give his atten- 
tions another direction. 

" Shall you be at the ball this evening ?" asked Mr. 

" Certainly, and I will introduce you, then, to my 

That evening Isabelle and Alice tasted first of Pleasure's 
Circean draught. There was no bitter in that first sip. 
Adulation from strangers, affectionate smiles from the dear 
home friends, met them at every turn. Mr. Bidwell was 
introduced, and to Donald's great annoyance danced twice 
with Alice. He pronounced him a blockhead and an im- 
pertinent dandy before the evening was over. 

Edward Wharton could not solace himself in the same 
way, when he found the gallant and every way distinguish- 
ed Maj. McPherson devoting himself to Isabelle. True, he 


thought the disparity between thirty-five and eighteen quite 
too great ; but he knew that many would not agree with him 
in opinion^ and Major McPherson was a man of acknowledg- 
ed talent and courage, handsome, graceful in manner, and 
above all, of higher rank and larger fortune than his own. 
What had he to oppose to these claims ? He glanced for a 
moment at the miror in his room. It reflected gray eyes 
and a face of sallow hue, which presented little that was 
attractive, except to one who could read and value the 
intellect, feeling and resolution, throned upon the ample 
brow, and giving character to the earnest eyes and the 
firmly closed lips. From his unusually prolonged con- 
templation of himself, Edward Wharton turned away with 
a sigh, murmuring. " I have nothing to offer her nothing 
but a heart which has loved her from the first hour I saw 
her. child as she then was." 

This discouraging soliloquy was interrupted by Donald, 
who entered to invite his friend to join a party consisting 
of his own family and Mrs. Wharton, in a drive to the lake. 

" We shall dine there take a sail on the lake, and 
return here in the evening. It will be a great relief to 
get away from the Springs, even for a few hours," added 

Capt. Wharton, though the most punctilious of men, 
was. for once, guilty of an impoliteness, he repeated his 
friend's words, " Get away from the Springs ! Excuse me, 
Donald, but I thought Saratoga was your Elysium." 

" Saratoga is well enough for a man who is alone, and 
has nothing to do ; but it is quite a different affair when he 
has ladies with him. If I had any reason that could be 
given to the world, I would persuade my father to be off 
to-day. I cannot bear to see Isabelle and Alice annoyed 
by the impertinent puppies here, who already seem disposed 
to l bestow their tediousness ' upon them." 


"Are you sure that they are annoyed?" asked Capt. 
Wharton, hesitatingly, averting his face as he spoke. " They 
may not feel these attentions tedious, McPherson, at least, 
is no puppy." 

" No McPherson, I confess, is an exception though 
even he vexes me a little by his confident approach to 
Isabelle. But what do you think of that fop who danced 
twice with Alice yesterday evening 1 I was provoked with 
her for permitting it." 

While conversing thus, the young men had been ad- 
vancing to the parlor occupied by Col. Montrose and his 
family, and had paused at the door as Donald completed his 
last sentence. Before Wharton could reply, if he intended 
to do so, the murmur of manly voices within the room 
reached their ears, and, with an impatient manner, Donald 
flung open the door, and discovered the very gentlemen 
whose merits he had been discussing, established there, not 
the least, apparently, to the dissatisfaction of many of its 
previous inmates. As soon as Capt. Wharton had been 
welcomed and was seated in the circle, Col. Montrose said 
to him, " You will join us, I hope, in this day at the Lake, 
for which Donald is so eager." 

Capt. Wharton bowed, but, before he could answer in 
words, his attention was distracted by hearing Maj. Mc- 
Pherson, in eager tones, urging upon Isabelle one of his 
horses, which he declared to be the most beautiful and 
gentle of creatures " exactly suited for a lady's riding." 

Isabelle glanced doubtfully at her father, who met the 
glance with a smile, as he answered for her, " My daughter 
is much obliged to you, Major, and would, I dare say, accept 
your offer with pleasure, as she has no fears in the saddle, 
but she knows I am loth to trust her on a horse with which 
I am unacquainted." 

" But this horse is so perfectly gentle. Permit me to 


order him here at once and to attend you in a ride this 
morning, Miss Montrose." 

Mrs. Wharton thought she read acceptance in Isabelle's 
eyes, and hastened to remind her of their excursion to the 
Lake. Major McPherson rose immediately, saying that he 
would not now detain them, but hoped that Miss Montrose 
would grant his request at some future time. Mr. Bidwell, 
who had been devoting himself to Alice, rose also, but paus- 
ed a moment to ask if she would allow him to drive her to 
the Lake in his buggy. Before she could answer, Donald 
had declined for her. " My cousin Alice is engaged to ride 
with me," he said. 

" Am I, Donald ? I really did not know it," said Alice, 


" Perhaps you would prefer to forget it ;" muttered 
maid, scarcely in an aside. 

" How can you fancy such a thing, Donald ? You know 
I would rather ride with you than with any one in the 
world." Perhaps there was something of triumph in the 
rapid glance which Donald gave to Mr. Bidwell, whom 
he saw to be still lingering near them ; but, if so, it was a 
triumph soon shadowed as the truthful Alice added " at 
least any one except Charles." 

Donald scarcely knew whether he were more angry with 
Alice, or with Mr. Bidwell, as he marked the smile lurking 
at the corners of that gentleman's mouth, when he made his 
bow and turned away. Donald hurried after him to pro- 
cure horses, having just sufficient self-command to get out 
of the hearing of Alice before he vented his displeasure in 
words. Having the entire arrangement of the party com- 
mitted to him, he placed his father, with his mother, and 
aunt and Mrs. Wharton in an open carriage, and had saddle 
horses for Isabelle. Alice, Capt. Wharton, and himself, 
'"''hey set out, and falling in the rear' with Alice, Donald 


soon left Isabelle to his friend's guidance. For the first 
mile or two, Alice found him a silent and somewhat sullen 
companion, but displeasure deeper than his must have 
given way before her joyous mood, assisted by a bright sun 
and a capital horse. 

Between Isabelle and Capt. Wharton there was little 
conversation during their ride to the Lake, and that little on 
the most indifferent topics the weather, the scenery, the 
society of Saratoga, &c. There was not even an oppor- 
tunity for the proffer of that protecting care from him 
which sometimes gives to such a ride a romantic interest ; 
for the road was good, the horse gentle, and Isabelle an 
admirable and fearless rider. Arrived at the Lake, they 
visited the scene of the battle between Gates and Burgoyne, 
and on this ground Capt. Wharton became himself. There, 
every spot was pregnant with interest for a soldier, and the 
earnest and pleased attention of those who listened to him, 
prevented his perceiving that he was long the only speaker, 
as he pointed out the position of the hostile forces, and 
sketched with a glowing imagination, that could not fail to 
kindle theirs, the most interesting events of the day. 

" This is one of Wharton's inspirations," whispered Don- 
ald to Alice. " They say, at West Point, he gets such fits 
now and then, and declaims, rather than converses, so elo- 
quently that his listeners never grow weary, and then for days 
afterwards, will be as silent a^f he had made a vow never 
to speak again." 

But such silence did not now succeed to his temporary 
exhilaration. He had seen the cheek of Isabelle glow, and 
her eye kindle at some of the acts of heroism he narrated 
he felt there was a sympathy between them, and dismissing 
Major McPherson from his thoughts, his spirit shook off its 
burden and rose the higher for its late depression. 

" We are very much obliged to you, Captain Wharton, for 


the interest you have given to our day here," said Col. 
Montrose, as they were leaving the lake to return to Sarato- 
ga ; " I hope to visit that battle-field with you again." 

" I shall not come with you," said Alice, as Donald was 
leading her to her horse. " I hate all battles and battle-fields, 
and hope sincerely there never will be another in our land." 

Capt. Wharton looked up at Isabelle. whom he had just 
placed in her saddle ; a bright glow rose to her cheek, her 
brow, as she exclaimed. " I hope there are spirits in our land 
that would make a thousand such fields in defence of such 
principles as triumphed here." 

As she concluded, her eyes fell, and she caught the up- 
turned gaze of Capt. Wharton. His heart was in that gaze. 
Did Isabella read it, and was it in rejection of its homage, 
that touching her horse with her light riding whip she can- 
tered so rapidly away ? If this was her meaning he did not 
understand it, for unwonted light beamed in his face, as 
leaping to his saddle, he urged his horse to a pace which 
brought him almost instantly to her side. 

" You do not shrink from the battle-field and its associa- 
tions as your cousin does & he said after they had ridden for 
some minutes in silence, " you have more courage than she." 

" I am not sure of that. If we were actors in the 
scene. Alice would probably bear her part as well, or better 
than I, though she might *&e less ready to enter on the 

Capt. Wharton asked with a smile, " Do you mean to re- 
present yourself as very much given to do battle?" 

" No not quite that ; but I sympathize more than Alice 
does at least I think I do with that spirit which will not 
yield an inch to a foe." 

" An inch, no not a point where honor or principle is 
concerned, that is the spirit which ever animates the truly 


He spoke warmly, and his looks were ardent as his speech. 
Again Isabelle increased her horse's speed, and again he re- 
gained her side, and resumed the conversation. 

" To a young and lovely woman like your cousin, we for- 
give every thing, and therefore I may not quarrel with her 
readiness to sacrifice principle to peace, but " 

" Alice sacrifice principle !" exclaimed Isabelle quickly, 
" I did not mean to intimate that I am not sure that she 
would not nay, I am sure that she would be more steadfast 
in the assertion of her principles than I." 

" I do not see how that can consist with a determination 
to preserve peace at all hazards." 

" The inconsistency is, doubtless in my mode of express- 
ing myself. I do not know how it is, but while I cannot 
think of Alice as doing battle for any thing, I can still less 
fancy her as yielding a principle. Is there not such a thing 
as passive resistance ?" 

" Yes it is that which makes Quakers and martyrs." 

" Ah ! that is it I have always thought Alice would 
make a good martyr." 

" The martyr may make his faith venerated, but it is the 
hero who bears it on to triumph." 

" And is not the martyr a hero too ?" 

" He is the noblest of heroes. But the world needs he- 
roism of another sort heroism which will strike boldly, as 
well as stand firmly for the right." 

" That is the heroism whicT seems to me most attractive. 
It has at least the hope of success, and the glow and impe- 
tus of action to support it. But to stand still against oppo- 
sing crowds to be borne down, crushed ah ! the divine 
must support the human, before we can choose such a 
fate." She paused a moment reverently, and then added, 
" I shudder, I grow pale at legends of the dungeon and the 
rack, but those of the battle-field kindle my spirit to a 


Isabella spoke with unusual excitement her face was 
flushed her eyes sparkled she sat more erect in her sad- 
dle, as if nerving herself for some deed of daring. Never 
had Wharton admired her so much. " Such," he said to 
himself, " should be the spirit of a soldier's wife she looks 
as if she could do battle by his side." 

Ah, Capt. Wharton ! Is that all ? Does she look as if 
she could wait and watch patiently for his return as if she 
could fear for his life, yet the fear be unspoken, lest it 
should be as a chain on his spirit, holding him back from 
the path of honor as if she could see woe worse to her than 
the dungeon or the stake, approaching, and BE STILL ? Such 
v is the heroism often demanded of woman the heroism of 
the martyr not the soldier. 

" See Wharton," shouted Donald; "you and Isabelle 
have passed the road." 

They looked back the carriage had already proceeded 
some fifty yards down a road to the left, and Alice was 
waiting at the turn, while Donald followed to recall them, 
and they were riding whither ? 

To whatever bourne it might have been, it is one they 
will not soon reach, for, obeying the call, they turn back, and 
ere they have finished their confused excuses for the blun- 
der, the unwonted light "has faded from the countenance of 
Wharton, and he has begun again to ask himself whether it 
would be honorable for a soldier who had no fortune but his 
sword, to marry, and above all, to marry an heiress. It was 
a question which he had asked himself every day since he 
had left New-York, and to which he had yet obtained no 
satisfactory answer. That evening, as he found his place at 
Isabelle's side usurped by Major McPherson, as he strove 
in vain to catch, even for an instant, the glance of the eyes 
smiling so brightly on his superior, he thought it was an- 
swered for him. 



" It were all one, 

That I should love a, bright, particular star, 
And think to wed it ; she's so much above me. 
In her bright radiance and collateral heat 
Must I be comforted, not in her sphere." 

" EDWARD, what are your intentions in relation to Miss Mon- 
trose ?" was the startling question of Mrs. Wharton to her 
nephew, as they took their seats in a retired part of the 
grounds to which he had accompanied her at her request. 

" My intentions in relation to Miss Montrose !" ex- 
claimed Capt. Wharton, surprised out of all conventional 

Yes pray don't repeat my words, as if you did not un- 
derstand me." 

" I really do not, my dear aunt." 

" In plain language then, do you mean to marry Isa- 
belle Montrose ?" 

Capt. Wharton was in an agony. Fastidious to a fault 
in his notions of the delicacy of woman, and the care with 
which a man of honor was bound to guard that delicacy, he 
trembled at the carelessness with which his aunt spoke the 
name he would scarce have dared to breathe spoke it too 
in connection with so strange a question. 

Marry Isabelle Montrose ! He who might hope to be 


so blest, should find his heart too full for speech, or if speak 
it lie did, it should be in the hushed tones in which men 
speak their hopes of heaven. 

" Pray aunt, be careful," he ejaculated. 

" There is no one within hearing," she replied " still, it 
may be as well not to call names I will be as careful as 
you please, if you will only be plain." 

" It is a subject on which I would rather not be ques- 

"And why not?" 

Edward Wharton was always polite, generally affection- 
ate to his aunt, who, though usually regarded as a heartless, 
as well as worldly woman, had been kind to him in his or- 
phan boyhood, but he was now provoked beyond affection, 
almost beyond politeness. " Because," he replied, " it is a 
subject on which none living have a right to question me 
it is one " he added in a softer tone, " which I have not yet 
dared to answer to my own heart." 

" Well I can only say it is high time you did answer it, 
or another will answer it for you." 

Capt. Wharton grew more attentive to his aunt's words 
" he did not understand her would she please to explain 
herself?" But Mrs. Wharton was a woman she loved power, 
and she saw that she could now exercise it and punish her 
nephew, moreover, for his resistance to her attempted inquisi- 
tion. Instead of answering him, therefore, she apologized 
for having spoken at all of an affair which, as he had just in- 
formed her, did not concern her. " It was very foolish, she 
acknowledged, in her to feel any interest in it, but she had 
felt an interest, so great an interest, that she had relinquished 
her journey to Virginia a journey on which she had set 
her heart, and had come to Saratoga, of which she was 
heartily weary, only to aid him in what she supposed to be 
his serious designs, but, if she had mistaken him, as it now 


seemed to her she must have done, there need nothing more 
be said, she would find some excuse for leaving their pre- 
sent party and resuming their original intentions. If they 
set out to-morrow arid to-day would be enough to pack 
their trunks they would still be in time to meet the Laights 
and the Vaughans in New-York." 

Capt. Wharton had at first made some effort to stop this 
flow of eloquence, but he apologized and protested in vain, 
and taught by past experience, he at length became silent 
and allowed the stream to exhaust itself. When at last his 
aunt paused, he soothed her wounded self-love by a few well- 
timed assurances of his gratitude for her affection, and his 
confidence in her generous regard for his interests he as- 
sured her that he had yet made no decision on the very deli- 
cate subject to which she had referred, but he would be glad 
to hear any thing that could be said by so true a friend as 
his aunt Wharton. 

Her pride thus pacified, and her sense of power satisfied, 
Mrs. Wharton, laying her hand on her nephew's arm, said 
earnestly, " You know, my dear Edward, that, having no 
children of my own, I have always regarded you as my son, 
and there is nothing I can have more at heart than your suc- 
cess in life. You have no fortune of your own, and your com- 
mission, though it may give you the means of living very 
handsomely as a single man, is nothing to marry upon, you 
must therefore look out for fortune hi a wife. But what's the 
matter, Edward ?" she exclaimed in surprise, as Capt. Whar- 
ton sprang from his seat. 

" Nothing, aunt pray go on," he replied, reseating him- 
self with a resolute air. 

" Well as I was saying fortune cannot be dispensed 
with by you in a matrimonial arrangement, and it seems to 
me that, in the young lady of whom we were speaking," 
Capt. Wharton set his teeth firmly together, and wrapped 


his arms closely around him, " this absolute essential of 
fortune is united with more of attraction than is ordinarily 
to be found. Her beauty " 

" Pray do not speak of it," muttered Capt. Wharton, 
between his teeth. 

" Why how needlessly cautious you are there is no 
one near us. But, to say all in a word I fancied in New- 
York that you were as fully aware as I of .the advantages 
of the connection, and yet. yesterday evening and the even- 
ing before, you suffered another to take your place at her 
side, and that other one who is evidently in love with her, 
and who, if he be older than yourself, has both higher rank 
and larger fortune to recommend him." 

" And may therefore be supposed to be disinterested in 
his affection may he not ?" 

" Why yes I suppose he may he can afford it." 

" Then his offering is worthier than mine let it be ac- 
cepted. I have loved her I love her how dearly, let the 
future show. I knew not till she taught me, how much pu- 
rity might be mingled with passion in man's heart yet the 
passion was so strong that it might have overborne honor. 
To win the priceless treasures of her love I might have con- 
sented to be suspected of interested motives might have 
consented to receive all where it would have been my delight 
to bestow all ; but I thank you for having shown me that 
the shadow of my dishonor would have fallen on her that 
the world might have dared to believe that I, to whom the 
lightest touch of her hand, the faintest breath of her lip, 
were of more value than all the treasures of earth's mines 
that I had seen in her in her, the bright, the beautiful, 
to whom my soul has looked as to its star of hope, only a 
not altogether unworthy appendage to the gold I sought. 
Never never shall so degrading an imagination be asso- 
ciated with her through fault of mine no, if assured that 


I could make her mine to-morrow, I would not do it at such 
expense to her. Your question is answered, madam ; no 
one but you would have dared to utter to me such doubts 
of my truth and honor : I may live to thank you for it but 
now oh, aunt ! aunt ! I will try to forgive you, but had 
your words been blows struck on my bared and quivering 
heart, the agony you have inflicted, had been less. Now, 
farewell we must not meet again do not attempt to fol- 
low or to speak to me I have no friend ! My life is 
desolate !" 

Capt. Wharton had risen and stood before his aunt as 
he spoke his figure drawn to its full height, his face pale 
with passion. The superficial woman of the world was 
awed by his eye into silence, but, as he turned away, she 
recovered her voice and called after him " Edward my 
dear Edward pray come back and let us talk this over I 
do not understand you at all you must have mistaken me 

He held on his way to the house, never once looking 

" I do believe he has gone mad. I have a great mind to 
ask young Montrose to go after him he may shoot or 
drown himself, or something, and that would make such a 
noise here it really would be dreadful." 

Mrs. Wharton could not remain quiet. She rose and 
followed Capt. Wharton to the house. She went to his 
room the door was locked she knocked she entreated to 
be admitted, but, during the time her fear of observation 
suffered her to stand there, not a sound gave token that her 
words fell on other than dead walls. 

Within those walls sat Capt. Wharton, as still and ap- 
parently as insensible as they. " How, without attracting 
observation, should he leave Saratoga 1 How remove from 
her whom he had been suspected of dishonoring by making 


her the object of low, sordid speculation ? Had she sus- 
pected him of such motives ? No" was the indignant re- 
sponse of his agitated soul ; " she better knows her worth 
nor would Donald so dishonor me but her father her 
mother the world !" and again the head which had drooped 
at thought of her, was raised as if to defy that world. 

Such were the subjects which, in every varying shape 
and shade of thought, rushed through his mind, interrupted 
by no sound, not even by the calls of his aunt. At length, 
however, he starts forward ; he hears a firm, elastic tread 
the tread of youth in its unbroken vigor and unclouded hope 
but it was not this that dispelled his dreams. Lighter 
steps were there and voices gentle, yet gay, and once a low 
sweet laugh fell on his ear. The manly tread was Donald's, 
and Isabelle and Alice were his companions. 

" Go on," he heard Donald say, " I will be with you in a 
moment but I must first see Wharton, and bring him along." 

" Shall I see him ?" he asked himself. The question was 
not answered, when there was a knock at his door, and act- 
ing, as we generally do in matters so deeply affecting the 
heart, on impulse, he rose and opened it. 

" Come, Wharton why, my dear fellow, what is the 
matter ? are you ill ?" 

" No " 

" Are you sure ? I never saw you look so pale but that 
is only another reason why you should come with me ; we 
are going to ride only Alice, Isabelle, and I and I want 
you to take one of my plagues off my hands ; Alice is as 
much as I can manage I will leave Belle to you." 

How strangely are the emotions of a human spirit con- 
cealed from its fellow spirits ! Is it in mercy, lest, with such 
power to torture, man should become a fiend, and earth a 

For a moment, Capt. Wharton thought of accepting the 


invitation given by his friend. It would be one day one 
blissful day, wrung from the closing hand of the destiny 
which was stamping " Ichabod " on his life. But no he 
could not trust himself; and his friend scarce perceived that 
there had been hesitation, when he answered, " Donald, I 
cannot go, I must write letters ; I have received intelligence 
this morning which will make it necessary for me to go to 
Washington, Excuse me to your sister and cousin." 

" Oh certainly !" replied Donald, a little piqued, that an 
invitation of whose joyful acceptance he had felt confident, 
should be declined. " I will apply to Major McPherson to 
relieve me ; he will, I have no doubt, take the place which 
you decline." 

A dark flush rose to the face of Capt. Wharton, he rais- 
ed his hand to his head, and reeled back against the wall 
near which he stood. Donald's pique was gone in a mo- 

" "Wharton !" he cried, " you are ill, what is the matter ?" 

" Only a little dizziness I will lie down, and you will 
excuse me." 

" Oh yes ! though I must have both Belle and Ally on 
my hands for to tell you the truth, Isabelle told me she 
would not ride with McPherson," 

" Poor fellow !" soliloquized Donald, as he turned away, 
after seeing his friend on his bed, " I hope he is not really 
ill it was a shame in me to tease him about McPherson. 
I begin to think Alice is right, and that he is in love with 
Belle I wonder if she cares for him. She might make a 
more brilliant match, perhaps ; but I do not know a person 
in the world, I should so like to call brother as Wharton 
except it might be Charles, and that," and a smile broke 
over his face at the thought " may be accomplished in ano- 
ther way." 

No sooner had Donald's steps died on the ear of Capt. 


Wharton, than, starting from his recumbent posture, he lock- 
ed his door, and began to gather together the articles of 
clothing or conveniences of the toilette, which lay scattered 
about his room, and packing them, or rather throwing them 
in his trunks. The late interview had decided his course. 
One such day one such hour, as Donald had proposed to 
him. and every thing would be forgotten but the passionate 
longings of his own heart. He must put distance, unconquer- 
able distance between him and temptation. The decision 
once made, he lost no time in its execution. It was now 
ten ; in one hour a stage would leave Saratoga for Albany, 
and he would be ready for it. His trunks packed, his next 
task was to write a note to Donald and his aunt. He prom- 
ised the former that he should hear from him from Washing- 
ton, whither he was going immediately on business. To the 
latter he wrote : " I cannot see you at present 5 our recent 
interview was too painful I will endeavor to forget it be- 
fore we meet again. Now I go to Washington and hope. to 
obtain orders to some distant frontier station. I can say no 

These notes having been prepared, Capt. Wharton rang 
for a servant, and, having given his directions respecting his 
baggage, he ascertained from him, that Donald had set out 
on his ride with Isabelle and Alice, and that he might there- 
fore make those adieus, which his respect for Col. and Mrs. 
Montrose prompted him to make in person, without danger 
of encountering her whom he dared not meet. To their 
parlor he accordingly proceeded, where he was received kind- 
ly, though with evident surprise 5 Donald having reported 
him too ill to ride. Their regrets at the necessity which 
compelled his sudden departure, gratified him by proving 
that the presumption of which he was ready to accuse him- 
self, or the base selfishness of which his aunt had suspected 
him, had not been seen by them. He left respectful messa- 


ges for his daughter and niece with Col. Montrose, replied 
with expressions of gratitude which promised nothing to the 
invitations to Montrose Hall, and departed. 

Travelling was not then so rapid as at present, but Capt. 
Wharton went post ; and in six days from that on which he 
left Saratoga, he was in Washington, and had obtained from 
the War Department, orders to Tampa Bay on the Gulf of 
Mexico, then our most distant southern station. 



" You cram those words into mine ears against 

The stomach of my sense." 
" Not that the blush to wooers dear, 

Nor paleness that of maiden fear." 

IF the departure of Capt. Wharton left a cloud upon any 
spirit at Saratoga, it was not visible to the general eye. 
Perhaps, Major McPherson may have thought that " the 
beautiful brunette," as Isabelle was called, did not receive 
his homage quite so flatteringly as at first, but the difference, 
if difference there were, was too slight to discourage him, and 
he was still, whenever she would permit it, her partner in 
the evening quadrille and the morning ride. Alice was so 
assiduously attended by Donald, that though many admired 
her, not even Mr. Bidwell could mark his admiration by any 
very particular attentions. The latter gentleman had lost 
his most efficient coadjutor in Mrs. Wharton, who had left 
Saratoga soon after her nephew, accompanying a party to 
Niagara and Canada. 

At the time of which we speak, the arrival of the mail 
was not a matter of hourly or even of daily occurrence. 
Twice a week, on Wednesday and Saturday mornings, the 
saloons of the United States and Congress Hall were filled 
with anxious expectants ; then rides and drives, and all the 
usual sources of amusement were relinquished, to watch for 


the arrival of the mail-coach, and to wait in all the varied 
states of feeling, induced by varied circumstances and tem- 
peraments, for the opening of the bag and the distribution of 
its load of joy and sorrow. Among these expectants, Alice 
was at this time one of the most animated and eager, for 
each mail, she hoped would bring the welcome tidings of the 
arrival of the Frigate Constitution, and consequently of 
Charles in the United States, from a cruise of three years in 
the Mediterranean. Like all sensitive persons, Alice was 
reserved in the expression of her feelings, but this glad ex- 
pectation of her brother seemed to her so natural, almost so 
necessary, that she thought herself secure of universal sym- 
pathy, and never dreamed of disguising her joyful hope or 
her bitter disappointment. Little did she understand the 
remarks of some ladies, on her " amiable enthusiasm" or 
the covert malice with which others complimented her, on 
her " naivet^ and grace" as she sprang forward to receive 
the packet held up to her view by her uncle or Donald, long 
before they reached her. 

Isabelle had scarce more knowledge of the world than 
Alice ; yet she either understood its tone more readily, or 
felt it more keenly. None could see any manifestation of 
interest in her manner during these hours of expectation. 
Indeed she either was, or seemed from contrast with her cou- 
sin, more cold and listless than at other times. Yet a close 
observer might have marked that, though she never asked 
the question " Any letters for me ?" even with her eyes, her 
cheek became somewhat paler when " No letters for you, 
my daughter," fell on her ear or if a letter were handed her, 
a flush rose quickly to her brow, to fade as quickly when the 
superscription in the hand of some old home-friend met her 
view. Could she have hoped that the looks, whose tale of 
passionate admiration, the lips had failed to utter, might seek 
an interpreter in written wordfc 1 


Time, moving on with noiseless course, accelerated or re- 
timled by no hopes or fears, brought at length the day and 
the hour. The Constitution had arrived, her arrival was 
announced at Saratoga, and the Montroses hastened to Bos- 
ton, the port at which she had entered, to meet Charles. 
On that meeting we will not linger. Words can do little to 
convey an image of the mother's mingled pride and tender- 
ness, as she leaned, faint with agitation, on the manly breast 
of him whom she had once borne in her arms and pillowed 
on her bosom ; or the emotion of the sister an emotion too 
glad for words, too deep for smiles to which only tears, the 
ever-ready language of humanity, could give fit expression. 
The welcome of Donald and Isabelle was scarce less joyful 
than that of Alice while Col. Montrose looked almost as 
proudly happy as his sister-in-law. 

But this was not the only meeting of the day. Mr. 
Browne, scrupulous in the performance of his duty as a rela- 
tive, called in the afternoon on his sister and niece, accom- 
panied by Mrs. Browne and Miss Browne their youngest 
and now only unmarried daughter. These ladies were dressed 
very gayly and in all the extravagances of the fashion of that 
day. They met Mrs. Charles Montrose and Alice with 
much cordiality, and extended their call to the other mem- 
bers of the party. 

Charles, who had been compelled to leave his friends for 
some hours, for duty on board the frigate, returned in the 
evening in company with a gentleman, seemingly, somewhere 
between thirty and forty years of age, whom he presented as 
his cousin. George Browne. The impression made on his 
new acquaintances by the younger Browne will be best 
shown by the conversation which succeeded his departure. 

cc Mamma," said Alice, '' my cousin George looks older 
than I thought him. He seems forty at least." 

' He is not so old, my dear, by more than ten years. He 
looks tiiiu and pale. Perhaps he confines himself too closely 


to business, though my brother, I think, used to fear that he 
would be a little wild." 

" A fear," said Col. Montrose, " which I should imagine, 
from appearances, had not been without foundation." 

" Do you think so, sir ? I should be verry sorry," ex- 
claimed Mrs. Charles Montrose. 

" Of course I can know nothing, my dear madam ; I can 
only suspect. He is very gentlemanly in appearance, and 
would be handsome if he looked in good health." 

" And splendidly dressed," said Isabelle, a gleam of hu- 
mor lighting up eyes that had of late been somewhat too 
grave in their expression. 

" And splendidly dressed," repeated Col. Montrose, 
" yet, I acknowledge, I should be grieved to see Donald look 
like him." 

" Little danger of that, sir, I hope," said Donald, press- 
ing the hand his father held out to him in speaking. 

Did Col. Montrose apprehend danger for his son. and thus 
delicately remind him that the happiness of others was 
bound up in his well-being. We know not, but if it were 
so, he did well to seek to place no bond on him stronger 
than that of grieving the hearts that loved him. It was too 

late to curb one who had thitherto known no ruler but his 


own will. 

To be quite impartial we should, perhaps, permit the 
reader to hear a conversation, occurring about the same time 
with that we have just reported, at Mr. Browne's. 

Mrs. and Miss Browne, dressed for display, sat in their 
drawing-room, impatiently expecting the arrival of the son 
and brother who had promised to accompany them to a 
concert. He was late, and. was accosted somewhat fretfully 
on his entrance. 

" Why, George, where have you been so late ?" 

" To see la petite et lajolie Alice. Have you seen her? 
The prettiest fairy " 


" Alice !" exclaimed his sister, " why, she is not so small, 
she is as tall as I am." 

" Is she ?" returned the brother, with a supercilious stare 
at his sister's certainly not fairy form. " I did not measure 
her height, but I saw that she was slight, and delicate, and 
graceful as a flower that sways to every breeze." 

" You are really quite poetical. You must have lost 
your heart," sneered the amiable sister. 

" Heart !" was the contemptuous exclamation in reply 
" I would lose a fortune in exchange for a toy so exquisite." 

" For my part, I think, Miss Isabelle Montrose is a 
thousand times more beautiful and more distingue in 
appearance," Miss Browne liked a seasoning of French as 
well as her brother, "and with her you might gain a 
fortune instead of losing one." 

" Thank you for the suggestion, my considerate sister, 
she is the most brilliant brunette I ever saw, and has a 
splendid figure certainly somewhat too Juno-like for my 
taste ; but, if you will ascertain the number of thousands 
she will bring with her, I may be induced to overlook that." 

" Here comes mamma, and I hope you will be induced 
to go with us at once, we shall lose rf all the best music as 
it is." 

Several weeks passed after the arrival of the Constitution, 
before Charles was freed from duty on board of her, and 
during these weeks Col. Montrose remained in Boston, that 
his nephew might be as much as possible with his mother 
and sister. The family of Mr. Browne made frequent 
visits to the Tremont and gave one laborious dinner to the 
Montrose party; yet their intercourse could scarcely be 
considered intimate, except on the part of George Browne. 
He was quite an example of an attentive nephew and cousin. 
Yet he did not like the recognition in speech of the very 
relationship which exercised so great an influence on his 


" Good morning, cousin George." said Alice, extending 
her hand to him in welcome. She had met him at the door 
of the parlor, as she was going to her room to dress for 
morning visits. He led her back to the sofa, and seating 
himself at her side, said, " Alice, what a perfect Southerner 
you have become with your cousin George." 

" Excuse me," said Alice, coloring and withdrawing her 
hand, "I will not offend again in the same way, Mr. Browne." 

" Worse and worse," he exclaimed, endeavoring to re- 
possess himself of her hand. 

" What shall I say then ?" 

" George to be sure." 

. " George !" exclaimed Alice, her eyes opening wide with 
astonishment ; " impossible !" 

" And why impossible ? You say Donald to Lieutenant 

" Oh ! that is quite different Donald is like my brother 
I have grown up with him and scarcely know any differ- 
ence between him and Charles." 

" I have no ambition to be like your brother, dear Alice, 
but " a movement in the room arrested his attention, and, 
on looking around, Ddhald stood before them. When he 
had entered or how much of the conversation he had over- 
heard, they knew not, but Alice, before the day was over, 
had reason to believe that he had at least heard her avowal 
of sisterly feeling to him. 

A ball was to be given on board the Constitution, and a 
few hours after the conversation with George Browne, Alice 
sat with her brother and Donald, talking over the coming 
fete. After a while Charles left the room to seek for 
Isabelle, whose hand he wished to secure for the first dance. 
Alice seemed to have fallen into a reverie after his de- 
parture, and Donald sat for some time gazing silently upon 
her downcast face. Suddenly looking up, and meeting his 

. : 
ith an open smile, she said. " Donald, I want you to 
w _ i yourself to me for that first dance." 

It was just what Donald desired, yet he was vexed 
that Alice should have asked it it was too sisterly a 

" That will never do," he replied in a tone of pique 
"you cannot dance with your brother, you know." 

" Oh ! but you are not my brother though " 

" No. nor ever can be, Alice," interrupted the impetu- 
ous Donald " and I wish you would cease that ridiculous 
abit of speaking of me as your brother." 

Her pride and tenderness both wounded to the quick, 
e blood rushed to the very temples of Alice, and rising 
to leave the room, she strove to say, " I beg your pardon," 
but her voice was choked by an irrepressible sob, and 
though she turned her head quickly away, Donald saw the 
tearp that hung upon her lashes. In an instant, he was at 
her side, his arm was around her vainly struggling form and 
he was exclaiming, " Alice dear Alice you cannot misun- 
derstand me. If I would not be your brother, it is only 
because I would be something dearer your lover, Alice, 
your husband." 

These last words were whispered in her ear, as she rest- 
ed her head against his shoulder, endeavoring to hide there 
the tears which his first address had caused. Quickly rais- 
ing it she now looked with a frightened expression in his 
face, exclaiming as she did so, " Oh Donald ! Donald ! do 
not say such terrible words." 

" And why terrible, Alice ? Are not lovers " 

" Oh ! do not repeat them, Donald do not repeat them 
you frighten me." 

" But why, Alice ? Cousins marry every day." 

" But not brothers and sisters, Donald my brother Don- 
ald my darling brother," and while bestowing on him 


these endearing epithets, the innocent girl passed her arm 
around his neck, and suffered her cheek to rest against his 
as he bent over her, seeming to wish by the tenderness of 
the tie she admitted, to win him from all desire for any oth- 
er. But this freedom, far from charming Donald, madden- 
ed him, by showing the entirely different character of the 
affection of Alice for him, and of that with which he regard- 
ed her. 

"Oh Alice !" he exclaimed, " would that we had never 
met till now !" 

" Do not say so, Donald, I love you so dearly ; I could 
never love a stranger as I love my brothers you and 

" Never love a stranger as you love us but you will 
love one better one day, you will marry " 

"Never, Donald never. I. will never marry, but will 
live at dear Montrose Hall as I always have done, and we 
shall grow old together, always loving each other as we have 
done from our childhood." 

"And you will never marry another? Do you promise 

" Oh yes ! I promise, and you, Donald, you will love me 
just as you always have done as your sister Alice ?" 

" I will love you ever and only, Alice." 

" Sister, Donald say your sister Alice." 

" I cannot, Alice I will not repeat what you dread to 
hear, but do not ask me to call you by a name my heart dis- 

" Oh Donald ! how unkind you have made me so mis- 
erable, and you will not say this little word to comfort me." 

Tears were again glistening in the eyes of Alice, as she 
fixed them on her cousin ; and Donald, though he had resisted 
her words, was overpowered by their mute appeal. " My sis- 
ter Alice," he said, with a sad, faint smile, while the arm 


which had been folded around her, fell heavily to his side. 
She seized his hand and clasped it in hers, as she cried, 
" Thank you thank you my brother Donald. Now we will 
forget all this folly, and remember only that we are true bro- 
ther and true sister." 

" And that you are not to marry ?" 

" No but to live on at Montrose Hall and be your 
housekeeper, perhaps, one of these days ; but I must leave, 
you now to dress " and dropping the hand which no longer 
sought to detain her, Alice hastened to her room, not to 
dress, but to throw herself upon her bed, and weep bitterly 
over this first cloud in her hitherto serene sky. Smile not 
at her grief, sage reader, till you have felt what it was to have 
some quiet home affection on which your heart had rested 
without an apprehension or a doubt, suddenly transformed 
into a selfish, exacting passion, from which you shrank, yet 
which you could not crush without remorse, because it wore 
the face, and spoke in the tones of the old love. 



" Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined, 
Often in a wooden house, a golden room we find." 

" PERFECT love casteth out fear," saitli the Book of Wisdom. 
We think the converse of this proposition is also true, 
and that in just so far as we fear, we cease to love. Think 
of this, ye who, loving fondly and truly, would yet constrain 
those you love by fear of the clouded brow, the sharp rebuke, 
the coldly sullen manner, or, worst of all fears to a generous 
spirit, the fear of inflicting pain on super-sensitive feelings. 
Would you know the signs of the decay of affections produ- 
ced by such means, recognize them in the anxious eye of your 
friend, no longer confident of kind interpretation, in the so- 
licitous manner, studious to avoid all that could displease, 
and to surround you, at whatever expense to himself or 
others, with gratifications, in the resolution which endures 
all in silence, rather than cast the lightest shadow on your 
sky. It is true that in all this fear mimics love, but like 
most mimics, it caricatures its original. It is true too? 
that only those whom we love, have the power to inspire 
such fear ; but it is no less true, that they must choose be- 
tween the two modes of influence, for where the spirit of 
love is, there must be liberty. 


Donald Montrose, without reasoning on this subject, felt 
that the smiles with which Alice now ever received him, her 
more than usually affectionate manner, and her evident so- 
licitude, on all occasions, to mark that he occupied no less of 
her attention than her brother Charles, were not proofs of 
increased affection. Angry with her, yet without ostensible 
cause of anger, or of reasonable complaint, he grew coldly 
sullen, and bitterly sarcastic. Ever at her side during the 
day, watchful of her every look and movement, the night 
usually found him dissatisfied with her, and scarcely less dis- 
satisfied with himself. He who ha'd never been denied a gra- 
tification, had not the majesty of soul which commands the 
tempestuous sea of passion this is a power born only amidst 
conflict. Yet neither was Donald altogether destitute of 
generous impulses ; he saw and loathed the selfishness of 
which he was guilty. Something of remorse seized on his 
spirit a feeling with all the bitterness of penitence, but 
none of its salutary power to win the sinner from the evil 
for which he suffers. To escape its sting, he fled at night 
from loneliness and quiet, to scenes of reckless dissipation. 
In these scenes George Browne was his leader, " only," as he 
said, " to give him a glance behind the scenes of that stage 
on which the decorous drama of Boston life was enacted." 
Donald long continued a spectator, rather than an actor in 
bacchanalian revels, and the mad excitements of the gaming- 
table. Not at once can youth hush the voices which are 
borne to it on the wings of memory, voices so tender and so 
sad, seeking to lure it from the companionship of vice to 
purer pleasures and holier associations. But he who seeks 
amusement in the wild extravagancies or reckless follies of 
others, is inhaling an impure atmosphere, under whose ex- 
hausting influence the vigor of his soul will fade, and his 
power to resist temptation fail. 

Though the freedom of a hotel life had scroened Donald 


from the observation of those who would have been wounded 
by his frequent visits to the scenes we have indicated rather 
than described, yet the vigilance of affection could not be 
entirely blind to the change passing over him, and this 
change seemed to Col. and Mrs. Montrose in some way the 
result of his association with G-eorge Browne. It was there- 
fore with little pleasure that, when after some weeks of 
travel, during which they had heard the roar of Niagara, and 
floated over the crystal waters of Lake George, they came 
to Newport even then a place of great resort to visitors from 
the South, they found G-eo.' Browne awaiting them, evidently 
by appointment with Donald. 

" I am sure I do not see what pleasure you can take in 
that Browne's society," said Col. Montrose to Donald the first 
time he found himself alone with him after this unwelcome 
meeting. " He seems to me as thorough and as shallow- 
pated a coxcomb as I ever met, and besides I have no doubt 
he is Yankee enough to cheat you out of your very eyes, if 
you do not keep a sharp look-out." 

" Do not fear, sir ; as I shall neither sell to him, nor 
buy from him, he can make nothing out of me," was Donald's 
thoughtless reply. 

At Newport, our party established themselves very 
agreeably in the house of a widow lady who eked out a 
small income by the profits she obtained from filling her 
large and pleasantly situated house with boarders. No 
Ocean House, or Atlantic, or Bellevue then offered its ac- 
commodation to the visitors at this spot of romantic beauty ; 
and the only place of public entertainment was too little in- 
viting to tempt even the gentlemen to leave for it the clean, 
comfortable and well ordered mansion of their hostess. 
The absence of great hotels will show at once that Newport 
was not then as now the resort of crowds of fashionable 
idlers ; yet among the comparatively few congregated there 


mij;ht be found varied elements of character, capable of an 
infinitude of combinations, presenting a not altogether unin- 
teresting study to the philosophical observer. There was 
the Southern planter, courteous and somewhat formal in 
manner, with a generous disdain of every thing mean and 
petty, which vindicated his claim to the epithet chivalrous, 
yet stung by false accusation and bitter taunt into an irrasci- 
bility and haughty arrogance foreign to his nature ; and be- 
side him the New England trader, designated by him with 
almost fierce emphasis, the Yankee, who, having acquired 
wealth by his own skill or industry, was proud of it as a 
warrior of his trophies, and displayed it with a bustling 
ostentation too little softened by the refinements which he 
had not had time to study. There were the children of 
both these classes, lavishing the money which the first could 
ill spare, and the last had hardly earned, in efforts to outdo 
each other in extravagance ; and there were sharpers ready 
either in the bargain or at the gaming-table, to avail them- 
selves of the folly of both. As few of the old gentry of 
New England visited Newport at this time, these were the 
grand shades distinguishing the classes most frequently 
to be found there ; but there were besides a thousand nicer 
touches discriminating individual character. Perhaps these 
were more decidedly marked in those who by the successful 
industry of their parents had attained wealth and social 
position beyond their early expectations, than in any other 

" My dear cousin, what a delightful rest it is to be near 
you," said George Browne one day, as he threw himself with 
a thoroughly exhausted air into a chair beside Alice. 

"What great exertion has so fatigued you?" asked 

" No positive exertion ; my exhaustion is the effect of that 
sympathy from which every delicate organization suffers 
when observing the labors of others." 


" And may I ask whose Herculean labors have so affect- 
ed your delicate organization this morning ?" asked Mrs. 
John Montrose, who, having entered unseen by him. had 
overheard his last remark, which he certainly had not intend- 
ed for her ear. There was in truth a certain stateliness 
about this lady, which inspired even those she liked with 
some degree of awe, and which was so marked to Mr. 
Browne that even his self-esteem did not wholly preserve 
him from its subduing influence. Fairly caught however, 
as he now was, he had sufficient audacity to conceal his 
annoyance, and answered, " I believe, Mrs. Montrose, that I 
must exercise the privilege of a Yankee, and answer that 
question by another. Have you noticed since you have been 
among us, the contrast between the repose of manner preva- 
lent in southern society at least among southern ladies," 
bowing to the ladies before him "and the fussy, fidgetty, 
laborious what shall I say I hate the word, and yet I be- 
lieve I must use it gentility of many here ?" 

" Like you, I dislike that phrase gentility, and besides, 
I am not sure I understand it. May I ask a definition ?" 
asked Mrs. Montrose, with quiet gravity, unappeased by his 
adroit compliment to her countrywomen, or herself. 

" My dear madam, you have given me a most difficult 
task ; I would as soon undertake to paint the hues of a dying 
dolphin as to define it ; it varies with varying place and 
circumstance. With you it wears the quiet aspect of one 
who, assured of her place and satisfied with it, does that 
which seems proper and graceful in her own eyes, without 
asking what will others say? But with many here, and 
especially with those whom I have been visiting this morn- 
ing, it consists in acting always and in all things as if en 
pleine cour in jostling your way into a prominent position, 
and assuming when there a sort of chevaux de frise a I 
something which speaks as plainly as words ' Come not 


near, for I am greater than thou.' The first is a garment 
it may be of rich it may be of simple material, fitting 
gracefully and easily ; the second one which, always glitter- 
ing and showy, hangs awkwardly on the wearer and con- 
strains every movement by its tightness." 

This speech was artfully adapted to propitiate Mrs. 
Montrose, and, doubtless, was not far from expressing her 
own conviction; but she was too acute not to see its object, 
and too proud not to resent the effort to play upon her self- 
love, and, without the least softening of manner, she replied, 
" Without being a very keen observer, I may confess that I 
have seen the differences you describe, but they seemed to 
me indicative rather of classes than countries. If there is 
generally a greater love of display in the Northern than in 
the Southern States, we must in candor confess that there is 
more of splendor to excite such a feeling. As to the want 
of ease of which you complain, is it not the necessary result 
of that enterprise and industry which changes only, by ele- 
vating ? And is not this a sign of a healthier and happier 
system than that in which all is stagnant ? The perfect re- 
pose sometimes seen in a landscape of a summer noon is 
beautiful in painting or poetry, yet some of us have felt 
that the beauty may be too dearly bought." 

At that moment a voice was heard in tones more decided 
than pleasant, exclaiming, " It is an assumption to which I 
will not submit, as I shall plainly show the next time we 

The speaker was tall, finely formed, and rather handsome 
in face, yet there was observable in her a want of refinement 
in looks and of good taste in dress, which, combined with 
her masculine voice and too energetic manner, rendered her 
by no means a pleasing object to any of our party Catch- 
ing the eye of Mrs. Montrose, as she turned away after a 
momentary glance at this young woman, George Browne 


smiled and said, " And must I indeed prefer such activity 
to repose, Mrs. Montrose ?" 

" Of such activity I said nothing. Shall we remain mo- 
tionless, because some action is ungraceful ?" 

" By no means, but I contend that it is precisely such 
ungraceful action which is most frequently met in our busy, 
bustling life ; it is and must be the result of the change 
which you eulogize. This young lady I would not dare, 
while the same walls enclose us, to name her woman spent 
the first nine years of her life in a small parlor behind a 
retail grocery, and her whole subsequent existence has been 
an energetic protest against such an undeserved indignity, 
and a throwing down of the gauntlet to every man, woman 
or child who dares to look as if he remembered it." 

" Surely, dear aunt, you would not have such jostling and 
browbeating as this lady's introduced into our dear, quiet 
Southern life." 

Mrs. Montrose smiled as she looked at the flushed cheek 
and heard the quick, ardent accents of Alice. 

" My dear little Southerner," she replied, " I am as little 
a friend to jostling and browbeating as yourself, and, per- 
haps, spite of my seeming magnanimity, as very a bigot to 
my own land ; but I will speak reasonably, if I cannot always 
feel so, and ray reason tells me that the roughnesses and 
awkwardnesses which are the result of recent change will 
be worn away by Time, while the natural tendency of the 
quietude you admire, is to gravitate downward to inertness." 

" But I am sure, aunt, there is no want of action about 
you or my uncle, or Isabelle, or a hundred others I could 
name, as you would feel," she said, turning to George 
Browne, " if you could see my uncle turning out before day- 
light to join a hunting party which will scour the woods for 
ten miles around just for the pleasure of the ride, I sup- 
pose," she added, with a laugh, as she saw her uncle was 



listening to her, " for such parties rarely bring back any 
venison ; or if you could peep at my aunt at sunrise in the 
dairy, or see her among her own people, nursing the sick, 
supplying the wants of the destitute, and comforting the 

" Alice Alice !" cried Mrs. John Montrose, coloring and 
striving to check the eagerly impulsive girl. " All this, my 
child, has nothing to do with our subject ; you are talking 
of individual action we of social progress and the general 
aspect impressed by it on life. You have given individual 
instances of activity, common enough, indeed, at the South ; 
and Mr. Browne could, doubtless, if he would, set against 
these a thousand individual instances of quiet, idle, fine 
lady and gentleman life at the North ; but where can we 
show an instance of one like this young lady, born in one 
sphere and introduced by the successful industry of her 
parents into another, while yet young ?" 

" Is it an advantage to her ?" asked George Browne, re- 
solutely determine'd, as it appeared, to please his cousin Alice, 
by his defence of her beloved South, right or wrong. " Would 
she not have been happier in her original position than she 
is in that which she now occupies, and where she retains 
her footing seemingly only by the most agonizing efforts ?" 

" My life having given me experience of neither," said 
Mrs. John Montrose, somewhat proudly, " I cannot answer 
your question, but admit that she wpuld have been happier, 
and I do not see how that can influence our argument. 
Such an instance proves too much, if it proves any thing ; 
it might with equal propriety be urged against any progress 
against any social change." 

" And I am not sure that it should be rejected for that 

reason ; I doubt whether in any of these changes ' lejeu 

vant la chandelle} There is enjoyment in every class so 

long as the mind is not disturbed by ambitious hopes. The 



very lazzaroni of Naples " he paused, arrested by the 

eye of Mrs. Montrose. 

She replied only by a smile, but Charles, who had drawn 
near and heard the last part of this long conversation, said, 
with a laugh, " You have thrown the game into my aunt's 
hands, George ; you have urged your own argument ad absur- 

" And here comes, just in time, an illustration of the ad- 
vantages of the social progress for which Mrs. Montrose so 
ably contends." 

George Browne turned to the window as he spoke, and, 
following his glance, the party perceived, approaching their 
house from the opposite side of the street, an old gentleman, 
pursy in figure and rubicund in face, leaning on the arm of 
a female of slender form and graceful movements, whose 
bowed head and large cottage bonnet did not for some time 
permit her face to be seen. While they were still too dis- 
tant to permit words to be distinguished, the querulous tones 
of the old gentleman gave no pleasing impression of the 
subject of their conversation. Alice was still observing 
them when the lady raised her head, and she met the glance 
of a pair of dark gray eyes, earnest and intelligent, and 
gave her quick sympathy to the gentle dejection expressed 
in a fair and very youthful face. They were already on the 
steps, and the next moment the door-bell rang, and the gen- 
tleman's voice was heard inquiring for Mr. and Mrs. Lar- 
kins. They were ushered into the parlor, the gentleman 
reiterating to the waiter as he was leaving them " Mr. and 
Mrs. Larkins ; tell them it is Mr. Driscoll and his niece." 

" Mr. Driscoll only, if you please," faltered a timid voice. 

The red face of her companion grew redder, and, dart- 
ing an angry glance at her, he repeated, " Mr. Driscoll and 
his niece, sir remember his niece." 

" She is not his daughter, then," said Alice, in a low tone 
to George Browne, who had bowed slightly to the new coiners. 


" No, he is a bachelor, who, having made a fortune in 
India, came home to enjoy it. He has taken that young 
girl, Emily Willson, the child of a widowed sister, to live 
with him. He cannot be said to have adopted her, for he 
tells her every day and conscientiously repeats in the ears 
of every new acquaintance she forms, that she has no claim 
on him, and it depends on his pleasure whether she ever in- 
herits a shilling of his immense fortune." 

" Poor girl !" sighed Alice. 

" Why does she remain with him ?" asked Charles, eye- 
ing indignantly the unconscious nabob. 

" You had better ask her," said George Browne, with a 
careless laugh at his earnestness. " She has, at least, five 
hundred thousand good reasons influencing her, I doubt not 
though romantic people pretend to say she is making a 
martyr of herself for the sake of a weak-minded mother, who 
is permitted, while she pleases her uncle, to live in his house, 
head his table and enjoy the luxuries which his ostentation 

" I have no doubt that is her motive," exclaimed Alice, 

Charles looked admiringly at his sister's glowing face, 
and George Browne answered, " It may be ; your sex are 
wonderfully given, I know, to make martyrs of themselves, 
or of others," he added, after a moment's pause. 

Just then the waiter returned to report that " Mr. and 
Mrs. Larkins were out." 

Ci Give me your card, Emily," said the uncle, as he drew 
one from his own pocket. 

" I have no card, uncle," said Emily, evidently with some 
apprehension of the consequences of such a confession. 

" No card !" was the angry reply, " and pray what do 
you mean by visiting with me without cards ? What do 
you suppose I gave you a silver card-case for, and a pack of 
the best enamelled cards, with your name engraved on them, 


if it wasn't that you should have 'em when you went visit- 
ing with me ?" 

The flush of shame rose to the fair cheek of Emily, as 
she strove to excuse herself, though in a tone too low to be 
heard by any other than him to whom she addressed herself. 
He answered with no such precaution, " I choose you shall 
call on her," and, writing the name of his niece on his own 
card with the very largest of gold pencils, Mr. Driscoll 
handed it to the waiter and hurried away. Emily followed 
him, but, embarrassed by consciousness of the observation 
this little scene had excited, she moved hastily, and stumb- 
ling against a footstool, she would have fallen, had not 
Charles sprung forward and caught her. The noise had at- 
tracted Mr. Driscoll's attention, and, before Charles could 
withdraw his supporting arm, he had turned quickly around 
and exclaimed, looking redder than ever, " What are you 
doing, Emily ? Who are you, sir ?" 

" I stumbled, uncle, and am indebted to the gentleman 
for not falling," said Emily, eagerly, as if anxious to prevent 
some unpleasant observation. 

George Browne, to whom Charles cast an imploring 
glance, stepped forward and introduced him as " my cousin 
Lieut. Montrose of the Navy." 

The introduction seemed to make no favorable impres- 
sion, for Mr. Driscoll bowed stiffly, and drawing Emily's arm 
through his, led her immediately out, muttering as he went, 
fortunately for the equanimity of Charles, too low for him to 
hear " Poor and proud poor and proud them officers in 
the navy always poor and proud I knowed 'em in China." 

Scarcely had the door closed on the uncle and niece, 
when throwing himself into a chair George Browne laughed 
long and loud. 

" What is the matter ?" asked Charles, coloring as if he 
feared that he was himself the object of his cousin's mirth. 


" Oh ! it is too good." 

"What is too good?" 

" Why, that old Driscoll should turn matchmaker, and 
manoeuvre, like any fashionable mamma, for a good parti for 
his niece." 

" I do not understand you," it was still Charles who 
spoke, and though he must now have been convinced that 
he had no personal interest in the affair, it was still in a tone 
of annoyance. 

" Is it possible you do not see that he is making that pretty 
little Emily court Mr. and Mrs. Larkins for their son ? the 
most stupid booby, but son to the wealthiest father, I know." 

" Poor thing ! I pity her sincerely," sighed the gentle 
Alice. " Do you visit them ?" she inquired of George 

" Not very frequently, for I am no favorite with the un- 
cle ; and the pretty Emily's favor without his I mean 
pretty as she is, she is not to my taste." 

" She is greatly to mine," said Alice, while Charles 
looked perfect agreement with her. 

They not unfrequently afterwards met Emily Willson, 
and though no words passed between them, a respectful bow 
from Charles, and a look of interest from Alice, never fail- 
ed to call a smile and a blush of pleasure to her cheek. 
This was slight intercourse indeed; yet pity for the 
trials of her life, so accidentally disclosed to him, combined 
with his admiration of her beauty to produce in the mind 
of Charles, in connection with her, a sentiment more nearly 
allied to tenderness than he had yet felt for any beyond the 
circle of his home ; while the gentle respect of his manner 
often rose to Emily's memory in contrast with the harshness 
and coarseness of her uncle. 

However enduring may have been the impressions pro- 
duced by this scene, the scene itself occupied but a few min- 


utes so few, that the argument it had interrupted had 
not been forgotten, and George Browne would have resumed 
it, but Mrs. Montrose, as he turned towards her with this in- 
tention, anticipated him, saying with a smile, " Mr. Browne 
can scarcely, I think, be so little acquainted with the gen- 
eral aspects of human nature* as to believe that vulgarity 
and tyranny, such as Mr. Driscoll's, are monopolized by any 
one society. I assure him it is not quite impossible to find 
them even in my own beloved South." 

" But aunt, surely they are not so obtrusively demonstrat- 
ed there," cried Alice warmly. " I never saw a gentleman 
at the South exhibit any want of courtesy to a woman, how- 
ever she might have been related to him." 

" And yet there are unhappy households at the South, 
Alice, and tyrannical husbands and fathers." 

" But at least, public sentiment compels them to keep 
such demonstrations of character for their homes. Such a 
man as Mr. Driscoll would not be accounted a gentleman 
with us." 

" Nor is he here, nor could he be any where. A gentle- 
man is not made by gold not even by the education, the 
habitudes and associations which gold may purchase. Like a 
poet, he is born, not made ; and such a birth is the result of 
the culture not of one, nor often of two generations ; but 
where there is a rapid increase of wealth, as here, the culture 
will go on and the stock increase. Even the inheritors of 
Mr. Driscoll's wealth in the third or fourth remove will, I 
doubt not, be refined into that subtle essence which Mr. 
Browne found it so difficult to analyze." 

" And you really then would prefer the North to the 
South?" asked George Browne. 

"For myself?" exclaimed Mrs. Montrose with anima- 
tion, " no a thousand times no ! For those who are con- 
tented with their own position, there can be no more delight- 


ful home than our own beautiful South ; but I would not 
quarrel, as you are disposed to do, with a state of society in 
which that position might be attained by those not born to 
it, even though in climbing there, they must bring some 
things I do not like ' between the wind of Heaven and my 
gentility} " 



" His addiction was to courses vain, 
His companies unlettered, rude, and shallow, 
His hours filled up with riots, banquets, sports." 
" Consideration like an angel cauie, 
And whipped the offending Adam out of him." 

HAD Donald made but half the effort to rule his own spirit 
which he did to mould to his wish the will of another, the 
result must have been to make him a better and a happier 
man. The bee sucks pure honey from many a bitter herb. 
But to Donald the very desire for self-control, the very per- 
ception of its possibility must be taught by sterner experien- 
ces than any which his life had yet presented. As his de- 
sires were selfish, there was nothing medicinal in his dis- 
appointment, while his expression of it exhibited more 
of boyish petulance than of manly regret. The natural 
reluctance of Alice to grant interviews, affording him only 
opportunities to urge requests to which she could not yield, 
or to lavish reproaches from whose sting she was not 
altogether shielded by a sense of their injustice, was re- 
sented as an indignity, and was met at last by passionate 
menaces, and mysterious hints of the reckless self-abandon- 
ment to which her cruelty was consigning him, and the mis- 
ery thus to be brought by her agency on all who were dear 
to her. 

" You have heard my entreaties for the last time," he 


had said to her on such an occasion, " I will offend you 
by them no more ; but when I have abandoned myself to 
pursuits from which I may hope to win the only good life 
now holds for me forgetfulness should the home which 
has sheltered your childhood be dishonored, and the gray 
hairs of the father, who has cherished you as his own child, 
be brought in sorrow to the grave, remember that you " 

Pale with horror, Alice stretched her hands towards him 
with the imploring cry, " Oh, Donald, spare me !" 

Seized with sudden remorse at that cry of anguLh, he 
clasped her hands in his, exclaiming, " Alice, I am a demon 
to grieve you thus." 

" And you will be good, Donald ; you will not do any thing 
to distress my uncle to break all our hearts '?" she urged. 

" I can make no promises, Alice ; I will do my best ; 
but I must have excitement I must have forgetfulness. 
Ah, Alice !" then as he heard the weary sigh with which 
she received the anticipated remonstrance, he dropped the 
hands she had not withdrawn, and exclaiming, " but I have 
promised no longer to torment you with bootless entreaties," 
hurried from the room. 

Inexperienced as Alice was, it may be that she would 
have recognized in these menaces only the exaggerations of 
passion, had not some things in Donald already awakened 
the anxiety of his friends. These were but shadows, it is 
true, vague and uncertain, but they darkened their path, 
prophetic of coming ill. Ah ! who can describe that sinking 
of the heart with which we mark the first plague-spot on the 
spirit of one we love ; how hope and fear prevail by turns as 
the leprosy spreads, agitating us as no mere earthly ill can 
do. All this no words can paint. Each must feel or fancy 
it for himself. Man gives little of his sympathy to it ; that 
is reserved for loss of fortune, or reputation, or for the 
wounds which death inflicts. But He who knows the heart 


knows that these last are but as the lading of the ship, which 
we throw overboard with scarce a pang, when storms threaten ; 
but that the first the inexpressible is as the settling 
down of the ship itself, in which, if it sink, we must be ingulfed. 
Though, as we have already intimated, Col. Montrose 
had felt some annoyance at seeing George Browne at New- 
port, he would far rather have endured his presence than to 
find, as he soon did, that he had the power of drawing Don- 
ald from his home circle to his own resorts. Browne had 
taken up his residence at a farm-house, remote from the so- 
ciety of Newport, but commanding one of the finest sea- 
views on the island, and giving easy access to the best fish- 
ing and bathing grounds. These advantages were the osten- 
sible reasons of George Browne for his selection of it for his 
residence on the island, and of Donald for the visits extend- 
ing sometimes to several days which he made there. But, 
however in accordance with these reasons might have been 
the pursuits of the day, the good farmer and his family 
could have told tales of the night which would have re- 
vealed attractions less innocent and more in unison with the 
haggard looks worn by Donald after these visits, and which, 
together with a certain moodiness of temper, had excited the 
anxiety of his friends. That anxiety would have been deep 
indeed, could they have seen some of the men who were 
his companions, in these nightly orgies men on whose 
faces vice had set her brand, and whom he would himself 
have shrunk from acknowledging as acquaintances in the 
broad light of day. These, as evening approached, might be 
seen, like birds of prey, called out by the shades of night, 
wending their way toward the solitary farm-house, or, as pass- 
ing time brought to their unconscious victim the craving for 
fiercer excitement, watching for his and Browne's arrival at 
the only public house at Newport a house, as we have 
already said, offering little to attract the reputable visitor, 


but whose chief gains were derived from ministering to the 
evil passions of the gamester. Here, two rooms in the rear 
of the house, remote from the public eye, and carefully 
guarded from the entrance of the uninitiated, were furnished 
with tables for billiards, cards, and rouge et noir. In these 
rooms the display of lights, rich wines, and heaps of glitter- 
ing coin, formed a strange contrast to the poverty exhibited 
in the rest of the house. Here, however, Donald did not find 
entrance till George Browne considered him too deeply en- 
tangled to escape his toils. 

Great as had been the freedom from restraint of Don- 
ald's earlier life, it was a liberty which had in it nothing of 
licentiousness, for he had been preserved by the pure influ- 
ences of his home, and the lofty character of his father from 
even the knowledge of vice. At West Point, the impulse 
which had sustained him in his studies had also preserved 
him from evil companionship, and on his first entrance into 
the world he had been shielded from it by the friendship of 
Capt, Wharton. Now, he had no engrossing pursuit, as at 
West Point. Capt. Wharton was gone, and from Charles, 
who might have supplied his place, as from the rest of his 
home-circle, he was driven by the irritation which Alice had 
excited. How his wild, untamed spirit chafed against the 
obstacle she opposed to his thitherto uncontrolled will ! 
That will had till now swept from his path every thing that 
stood between him and his desires ; must it be stayed in its 
most determined purpose by a feeble girl ? He was yet to 
learn that the gentlest things in nature are the most pow- 
erful. The electric flash may startle us for a moment, but 
how much greater is the influence of the sunbeams that fall 
so silently around us ! Passion had driven him from the 
sanctuary of home ; yet more reprehensible passion had made 
him the associate of the depraved. He still held himself 
loftily apart from many of the associates of the profligate 


Browne, but he would scarcely have received such deep and 
lasting injury from their coarse vulgarities as from the cold 
persiflage of Browne, and the plausible sophistries of one 
to whom Browne had introduced him. 

It may be remembered that when Edward Grahame, the 
enterprising, but unsuccessful manufacturer, lay on his death- 
bed, two sons and a daughter were beside him. The 
younger of these sons, Richard Grahame, too young at his 
father's death to feel the pressure of those responsibilities 
which might have roused his indolent nature to voluntary 
action, and too old to bear the curb of a brother's authority, 
had grown up imperfectly educated, with a mind sufficiently 
ingenious in furnishing excuses for the gratification of his 
thoroughly undisciplined desires, with a heart not wholly 
destitute of kindly affections, but without the guidance of 
one abiding principle, or the energy necessary to resist one 
strong impulse, whether that impulse came from within or 
from without. What had been accomplished in Donald by 
the strength of passion, bursting asunder in its fury the 
bonds of early convictions, and right affections and noble 
aspirations, had been yielded by Richard Grahame to the 
first temptation skilfully applied. In both cases the tempter 
had been Browne, who had met Richard Grahame at his 
father's house in Boston, whither Richard had been sent as 
his brother's agent. 

Mr. Thos. Browne had been one of Edward Grahame's 
largest creditors, and as he was also one of those most urgent 
for payment, Robert Grahame had very soon after his father's 
death begun to pay him certain yearly instalments from 
the salary he received as superintendent of the Grahame Cot- 
ton Mills. One of these instalments had passed into the 
pockets not of Mr. Thos. Browne, in the counting-room, but 
cf Mr. George Browne, at the gaming-table. Other trans 
actions of a later date, and, if possible, still more disgrace- 


ful character, had cemented this union between villany and 
weakness. It was a union in which each gave what was 
needed by the other. It had been George Browne's misfor- 
tune to attain to manhood while his family were still main- 
taining a dubious strife for their position in the ranks of 
fashion. He quickly saw the advantage which his intimacy 
with the sons of certain families gave him with his father ; for 
strange as it may seem, this shrewd man of business had no 
loftier ambition, no more darling object in the acquisition of 
gain, than to give his children the privilege of spending the 
wealth for which he had toiled, in the society of persons of 
fashion. That his son might do honor to his family in the 
eyes of his distinguished acquaintances, money must be at 
his command, and it was never withheld. The results might 
have been foreseen. In vain did the mistaken father, when 
they became apparent to him, seek to countefact them by 
withdrawing his lavish supplies and by an attempt to resume 
the authority he had long since relinquished. It was too 
late. The tree had already stiffened in the inclination given 
to the twig. The name of George Browne had been placed on 
that firm with which his father had never entirely dissolved 
his connections, but he was seldom known to enter the house 
in which their business was transacted, and the want of 
credit with his father drove him not to business, but to more 
disgraceful modes of filling his purse. The tricks of the 
practised gamester became familiar to him, and he had some- 
times purchased immunity for failure to meet his own obli- 
gations by introducing to his brother sharpers some wealthier 
dupe. In this honorable task, he had not unfrequently 
found a useful coadjutor in his more decorous and plausible 
companion, Richard Grahame, especially when the intended 
victim was one who, like Donald Montrose, had seen too much 
of the loveliness of virtue, and was too little accustomed to 
the contemplation of vice, not to shrink from the cold, mock- 


ing tone, with which George Browne met every betrayal of 
finer affections than he could himself entertain, every hesitat- 
ing step on the road which had become familiar to him. 

Let us look at these worthies as together they await the 
appearance of Donald, who having an engagement to ride on 
the beaches with his sister had promised to leave her to return 
with Charles and Alice, while he rode over to the farm and 
proceeded to town with them by a road passing through the 
centre of the island. From the open windows of the room 
in which the confederates sit, the ocean is seen spreading in 
almost glassy smoothness to the southern and western hori- 
zon. The purple clouds of sunset are mirrored there, above 
which the new moon just shows its slender golden crescent. 
But this lovely scene wakes no glowing, grateful emotion in 
the dull, besotted minds of those who now gaze upon it. 

" Do you see any thing of Montrose ?" asks George 
Browne of his companion, who is looking steadily out over 
the marshes which lie between him and what is called the 
second beach. 

" No," he answers languidly, and then, after a moment's 
silence, turning towards Browne, he says with more earnest- 
ness, " I wish you would let me off from this business, 

Instead of answering him directly, Browne fastens his 
eyes upon the speaker for a moment, and then says, " You 
have been to Springfield, I perceive." 

" I have, and I have seen my sister, whom I never see 
without hating myself and longing " 

" Pray, Mr. Grahame, spare me !" interrupted Browne, 
with a scornful curl of the lip. " I have heard all that be- 
fore besides, it is quite irrelevant to our present business, 
which is expressed in a very few words. I hold your check 
I beg your pardon, your brother's check " a sudden spasm 
as of pain, contracted the brow of Richard Grahame, not 


unperceived by his companion ; " your brother's check" he re- 
peated, " for five thousand dollars. I am willing to accept 
certain services from you in lieu of its payment; if those ser- 
vices seem to you too onerous, you have only to say so. 
Your brother is even now on the island, I believe ; and at 
any rate, he has acquired such credit, that I have heard my 
father say, his check would be good in the market for double 
the amount I have stated." 

Richard Grahame answered only by a look, as he strode 
rapidly through the room, to and fro ; but in that look how 
much was concentrated the helpless rage, the hopeless de- 
spair of the victim, who feels the toils tightening around him, 
and knows that his struggles are in vain. Rising also, 
George Browne approached his companion and said, " I 
cannot conceive at what you hesitate in this affair." 

" Can you not ? do you not know that this man has a 
mother and sister whose hearts must be wrung by his folly ?" 

" Yes a mother and sister who would think themselves 
less degraded by his vices, than by his communication with 
Yankee tradesmen and mechanics ; who would sweep by 
your own lovely and graceful sister with contempt. Let 
them suffer, let them learn that they have no privileged 
exemption from human vicissitudes. I declare to you, Gra- 
hame, that my pursuit of this mad boy has been stimulated 
into almost a passionate excitement, by the pride of his fam- 
ily. Their immense wealth, too, frees one from any scruples 
of conscience in drawing something from their pockets." 

He paused, but as his companion made no comment, he 
soon resumed : " You may be of great service to me in this af- 
fair. There is a certain decorous mode of playing the devil, 
unattained by me, but possessed by you in perfection, which 
is invaluable in silencing the foolish scruples of a neophyte. 
This young Southron is peculiarly alive to appearances. I 
have been obliged to order Matsell and Blixby to keep out 


of his way for the present, as the last time he found them 
here, he mounted his horse immediately and rode back to 
Newport in a rage. But for you he has asked frequently 
since you left us. Here he comes !" he added quickly, as 
glancing from the window he saw a horseman crossing the 
marshes at a rapid gallop ; " you must decide quickly, there- 
fore, whether I shall hand this slip of paper to your brother, 
or whether you will redeem it." 

" Shall I redeem it?" 

" Yes I give you my word of honor that should you bring 
this prize within my grasp, I will surrender this paperto you." 

" Be it so ; I shall then be working for Kobert while I 
am accomplishing your purposes, and, harshly as he judges 
me, I would walk barefoot over burning coals to aid him in 
his efforts, at least," he added in a more subdued manner, 
as he read the sneer on his companion's face, " to feel that I 
had not interposed obstacles to his success. But will you 
give me in writing the promise you have just made ?" 

" No you are not over careful, and such a paper would 
go far to establish a conspiracy case. You must play with 
Montrose yourself. You cannot doubt that I will accept his 
note to you in exchange for this check ; nor can you, I think, 
doubt your success with such an unpractised player." 

While Browne was speaking Donald galloped to the door, 
flung himself from his horse, and throwing the reins on his 
neck, suffered him to crop the grass that grew in luxuriance 
at the very door-step, while he entered the house. Saluting 
Grahame with evident pleasure, he said to Browne, " I be- 
lieve you must excuse me from accompanying you this even- 
ing to the Maison du Mer." 

" What ! does Madame votre mre command your pre- 
sence in other scenes ?" 

" My mother never commands me." was the boyish retort 
hastily uttered. 


" Then may I venture to ask, what has occasioned your 
change in relation to an engagement which has kept Mr. 
Grahame and myself at home all the afternoon ?" 

" I regret to have restrained the movements of Mr. Gra- 
hame or " 

" Pray do not say a word of it so far as I am concerned," 
interrupted Richard Grahame eagerly, " I shall have the 
pleasure of your company in our ride to town, and that will 
reward me sufficiently for any restraint I have suffered." 

" First let us have some tea," said Browne, adopting im- 
mediately the courteous manner of his companion. 

He rang and gave his orders, and they were soon sum- 
moned to the bountifully spread table of their farmer host, 
where excellent bread and butter, fresh raspberries, and abun- 
dance of sweet cream, atoned for poor tea and coffee 

" What was the result of the argument you were repeat- 
ing to me when Montrose came in, Grahame ?" asked Browne 
as he filled his saucer a third time with raspberries and 
cream, while his companions pushed their chairs from the 
table, to indicate that the meal was concluded. " I mean," 
he added, as he saw the puzzled expression of Grahame's 
face. " your argument with your very straight-laced friend on 
the character of our intended amusement this evening." 

" Oh ! excuse me I had forgotten. Well, to my friend's 
first objection, that it involved the waste of time and money, 
the answer was obvious, that this was quite as true of many 
things in which the ' unco guid ' themselves indulged with- 
out scruple, as, for instance, of expensive entertainments 
given only for amusement, of fishing and hunting, when 
these were pursued only for sport, and of more things than 
I had time to name. My friend now shifted his ground, and 
objected, that to an honorable man, it must be painful to 
take money won at a gaming-table ; since he must feel that 
he had rendered for it no adequate compensation in labor 
or otherwise." 


" And what could you say to this ?" asked Donald, with 
an eagerness that showed his interest in the subject. 

" That success in play, if the play were fair and this 
was always supposed among gentlemen could not be obtain- 
ed without labor. That it was obtained, like all other suc- 
cess, by abilities sharpened by exercise, and that as regarded 
the having rendered an adequate compensation, none but 
the loser could decide on this ; and for my part, I thought 
every man a fool, who would risk more on a game than he 
thought the amusement worth to him." 

Donald remained silent, and it was Browne's turn to ask, 
" What was your friend's reply to this ?" 

" He had not a word to say ; but lest he should be only 
silenced, not convinced, I carried the war into the enemy's 
country, and begged leave to inquire what adequate compen- 
sation in labor or otherwise, he had rendered for the ten 
thousand dollars gained that day on the stock exchange." 

" Ha ! ha ! you had him there, I think." 

" Yes I have heard nothing of his objections since, and 
I doubt not I should have had the pleasure of introducing 
him to a more gentlemanly amusement than stock broker- 
age, had he not been completely under petticoat government." 

" Will you ride with us, Montrose ?" asked Browne, as he 
rose from the table. 

Donald assented, and they were soon mounted and on 
the road. They were unusually silent, for two of them were 
considering how they might influence the third, and this 
third was revolving the arguments he called them such 
he had just heard in favor of a practice which he had hither- 
to been accustomed to consider by no means respectable. The 
town was still a half mile distant, when Browne drew up 
his horse, and pointing to a road at his left said, " Montrose, 
if you are afraid of being seen in the company of such 
naughty boys as Grahame and I, we had better part here ; , 


this is our way to the Maison du Mer you will reach your 
lodgings quite as directly by that road." 

" I do not understand you, sir," said Donald, coloring 
high with anger. 

" Afraid of being seen with us ! Do you know your friend 
so little, Browne ?" exclaimed Grahame ; " I required scarce a 
day's acquaintance with Lieutenant Montrose to satisfy me was a word whose meaning he had yet to learn. 
If indeed you cannot go with us this evening," he added to 
Donald. " can you not appoint some time when it will be 
more convenient for you ? Browne tells me you play billiards, 
and I want to have a game with you, for I particularly 
value myself on my skill in billiards." 

" Can you not spare an hour from your evening's engage- 
ment to see us play out one game to which I am pledged 
with him ?" asked Browne. " He is so intolerably vain of 
the way in which he handles the balls, that I should like to 
have you see me beat him; will you come? It will not detain 
you long." 

Donald could not run the risk of being thought afraid to 
do what he liked, or l: under petticoat government? and like 
many a youth before him, he sacrificed his own self-respect, 
and obtained only the contempt of companions who saw clear- 
ly enough the motives by which he was actuated. 

" After all, it is only a game of billiards, and I have play- 
ed them many a time with my father." he repeated to him- 
self, as he proceeded at a brisk trot with his companions to 
the Maison du Mer. 

The road they were pursuing wound its way over a suc- 
cession of hills. They were approaching the last of these 
that lay between them and the town, when Donald perceived 
a horseman just rising from the opposite side, to its summit. 
As he reached it, he drew up his horse and stood still, appa- 
rently gazing from that commanding position on the land- 


scape around him. The forms of both horse and rider were 
clearly revealed against the glowing western sky, and rarely 
have there been seen forms more symmetrical. The horse was 
jet black, and as he stood, his neck arched till his small head 
almost touched his broad chest, his ears quivering with im- 
patience, and one fore-foot slightly pawing the ground, he 
was worthy an artist's study. But Donald's gaze was riveted 
not on him but on his rider, whose figure, though not above 
the middle height, exhibited in its proportions more of easy dig- 
nity, and even of command, than any on which he had ever 
looked. The object of his observation remained perfectly 
still for more than a minute, when suddenly dropping his 
reins he stretched out his arms towards the sea, with a ges- 
ture graceful, yet energetic. The spirited horse, finding 
himself released from control, began rapidly to descend the 
hill, wheeling so suddenly that he must have thrown a less 
practised rider. 

" See ! see ! he will be down," Donald involuntarily ex- 
claimed ; but, ere the words had left his lips, his apprehen- 
sions were relieved. Even before he had caught the reins 
again, the horseman had resumed the mastery over the im- 
patient animal, which now came gently though fleetly for- 

Donald's attention had been too much absorbed in his 
admiring observation of the new comer to permit him to re- 
mark the effect produced by his appearance on his compan- 
ions. A low, deep " Damnation !" uttered between his 
clenched teeth, was George Browne's salute to him as he 
lifted his eyes at Donald's exclamation, while Richard Gra- 
hame, suddenly checking his horse and casting a hurried 
glance around him, seemed to be seeking some mode of avoid- 
ing the meeting, which he soon found to be inevitable. As 
this conclusion forced itself upon him, he put spurs to his 
horse, and crying " Sauve quipeut ! " urged him to a rapid gal- 


lop up the hill. Donald, supposing this only a playful chal- 
lenge, would have followed him, but Browne, laying his hand 
on his rein, said, " Stay Montrose this is a family affair, 
and we had better have nothing to do with it. The gentleman 
riding this way is a brother of our friend Grahame, and they 
have had lately some serious differences. I believe Grahame 
means to cut By Jove ! the fellow is determined not to be 
cut. See, he draws up his horse to wait for Grahame." 

" What a splendid rider he is ! " cried Donald, ever at- 
tracted by excellence in all manly accomplishments ; " his 
horse obeys his mere volition, as if he were a part of himself. 
Grahame will pass him ; but no ! he wheels his horse across 
the road Grahame must stop." 

" Or ride him down, which is what he should do," said 
Browne, bitterly. 

Irresistibly attracted by what he had seen and heard, 
Donald's gaze was riveted on the stranger as he drew near 
him, and seldom had he beheld a countenance which awak- 
ened his interest so powerfully. 

On the broad brow which the riding cap left wholly un- 
covered, there sat a kingly majesty, while the determination 
of the firmly closed lips was softened by the milder expres- 
sion of the earnest dark gray eyes. There was power won- 
derful power in that face, but to a close observer it would 
have seemed the power rather of endurance than of action. 
With a certain family resemblance between them, never did 
two men exhibit in countenance characteristics more oppo- 
site than did those two brothers as they stood there, facing 
each other. Richard Grahame was flushed, angry, glancing 
restlessly from side to side, as if seeking some means of es- 
cape ; his brother pale, calm, resolute, his eyes fixed on the 
face before him, not actively interfering with Richard's 
movements, yet, by keeping his horse across the road and 
directly before his brother, effectually checking his advance. 


As Browne and Donald approached, Robert Grahame 
for he it was glanced for a moment at them. Somewhat 
to Donald's surprise, George Browne met that glance with a 
bow more respectful than he was accustomed to give, to 
which the stranger, while a slight flush rose to his pale face, 
replied by a bend so stately and so frigid that Donald 
thought, in Browne's place, he would have been better 
pleased with no acknowledgment at all. Occupied by his 
observation of others, he had not seen the look of almost 
sad interest with which he was himself regarded. If he had, 
he might have anticipated the words uttered as soon as he 
was out of hearing, " And so, this is your intended victim, 
Richard ?" 

" Robert, this is unbearable. I am no longer a boy, to 
be stopped by force and lectured at your pleasure. Let me 
pass !" 

" I will, when you have heard that which I stopped you 
to say." 

" Say it quickly, then." 

" I will. Having occasion to call at the Maison du Mer 
this afternoon, by a fortunate accident, or rather by a good 
Providence, I overheard a conversation from which I learned 
something of your and Browne's designs, and I was even 
now riding out to see you, and to tell you that I will thwart 
them if there be power in man to do so." 

" And I tell you that you had better not interfere with 
us for your own sake. I know not what ridiculous folly you 
may have heard and been sufficiently credulous to believe, 
you are always ready enough to impute evil to me ; but, 
whatever our designs may be, what business, I pray, have 
you with them ?" 

" It is the business of every honest man to prevent so 
flagrant a violation of the laws of God and man, even when 
the violator is one in whose actions he has no special con- 


" And you have no special concern in ours." 

" In Browne's I thankfully admit I have not." 

' : Nor in mine." 

' : That is a question of which I am the only judge ; but 
I am not here to argue with you, but only to warn you that 
I am watching you, and that no consideration mark me ! 
no consideration shall prevent my doing what I feel to be 
my duty in this matter. I have said it. Good evening." 

" Your duty !" began Richard Grahame, with contemptu- 
ous emphasis. Before he could say more, his brother was 
out of hearing, having urged his horse into a gallop the mo- 
ment he himself ceased speaking. Richard looked after him 
for an instant, but if he had any thought of following him, 
it was quickly relinquished, and he rode rapidly off in an 
opposite direction, hoping still to overtake Browne and 
Montrose in time for the fulfilment of an engagement which 
had become more than ever important, since, should his 
brother keep his word and, from his knowledge of him, he 
had little doubt that he would keep it they would probably 
have few such opportunities of accomplishing their object. 
His last word had reached his brother's ear, and found a 
quick echo in his mind. 

"Duty!" he said to himself: "for what else have I lived? 
Fame ? Power ? These were dreams of my boyhood 
dreams indeed ! Pleasure ? Of that, as an object of life, I 
think, I never dreamed. There was nothing in it to touch 
my soul. One other youthful dream there is ; but it is one 
in which I never dared indulge, lest it should make my life 
seem harsh in contrast love. Would it not have softened 
the spirit and unbent the energies which, on my father's 
grave, as on a holy altar, I had consecrated to duty a 
homely duty but it may be that such a consecration is not 
the less ennobling, not the less approved by Heaven, because it 
can hope for no earthly appreciation no earthly reward. 
DUTY ! THE RIGHT ! THE TRUE ! Is not this the only 


substantial good in the whole creation ? Is not the pursuit 
of any other object but chasing a shadow? The wealth 
which Richard ha ! Richard where am I ?" 

Bound in the spell woven by such thoughts, he had left, 
more than a mile behind him, the road by which, doubling 
on his track, he had intended to return to the city in time 
to interrupt the confederates in the execution of their de- 
sign, and, as he hoped, oblige them to relinquish it, or, if 
this might not be, to expose their plans to their intended 
dupe, and thus induce him to break from their toils. Awak- 
ened from his reverie, he returned rapidly to Newport by 
the shortest route, but, though he went to the Maison du Mer 
and to every place of public resort, he could neither see any 
traces, nor hear any tidings of those he sought. 



" Though the mills of God grind slowly, 

Yet they grind exceeding small ; 
Though with patience stands he waiting, 
"With exactness grinds he ali." 

NAMES exercise over us a power which few of us would be 
disposed to admit. It is a power, however, capable of de- 
monstration. Controversies which have kept the world agi- 
tated for years, or even for centuries, are they not often to 
be traced to names ? How many in our own times have 
been the mocking words, even the bitter, angry feelings ex- 
cited by the name animal magnetism, yet who doubts the 
thing itself? Who doubts that there resides in some a won- 
derful power of attraction, by which they win to themselves 
the sympathies of all hearts, and move the minds of men 
hither and thither at their will ? Others may overpower op- 
position by strength of reason, but these move us by an at- 
tractive force as sweet as it is irresistible. Is it not thus 
with that wonderful Hungarian, who, exiled, proscribed, re- 
viled, speaking to strange nations in strange tongues, sways 
not the rude masses merely, but the grave judge, the stern 
legislator, and the solemn divine ? And what is there more 
wonderful in any physical influence, than in this power over 
minds, by which we are induced to yield to one, what a 
greater array of argument and stronger personal motives 
could not have won from us for another ? Somewhat of this 


power was possessed by Robert Grahame. It was the power 
of a nature simple and earnest, which dared always to' seem 
what it really was. Little instructed in worldly forms, he 
might, and, doubtless, often did, sin against conventional 
rules, but never against the " higher law" of Christian cour- 
tesy courtesy the dictate of a kind heart and a fearless 
nature. His attractive power had been exercised on Donald 
even in their momentary meeting, and its result was to de- 
feat his own projects, for, through it, his brother became 
more interesting, and thus the influence was increased which 
he had designed to destroy. 

There had been little conversation between George 
Browne and Donald during the few minutes that Richard 
Grahame was detained by his brother. They rode slowly, 
and were soon overtaken by one who came with the rapid 
pace of excitement. 

" He is alone," said Donald to Browne, as he saw him 
approaching, " I hoped he would have accommodated mat- 
ters with his brother and brought him along. I should like 
to see more of him." 

" Ah, Grahame !" cried Browne, as he came within reach 
of his voice, " where have you left Signer Grandissimo ? 
Our friend Montrose is quite desirous to make his acquaint- 

" If you mean my brother, he intends to try to be with 
us in the course of the evening, and I may have the pleasure 
of introducing him to Lieut. Montrose, if he is not compelled 
to leave us too early." 

Browne gave a quick glance to his friend, who met it 
with quiet assurance, adding, carelessly, " Ride up, and be- 
fore going to the hotel we will leave our horses at Camp's, 
where I got mine. I think I shall stay in town to-night, at 
my old lodgings, with Mrs. Marmont ; I can give you a bed, 
if you will accept it." 


" Thank you ; perhaps I may. At least, I will leave my 
horse at Camp's ; lie will be better cared for there than at 
the Maison du Mer, and my host at the farm is somewhat 
particular about the care taken of his horse. That is a fine 
bay you ride, Montrose. Did you get him at Camp's ?" 

" Yes, and I liked him so well that I engaged him dur- 
ing my stay in Newport, but I wish I had not been so hasty; 
he is not to be compared to the horse your brother rode." 

" Ah ! there are few horses that can rival Ebony ; but 
then you could not get him, he belongs to Robert, who would 
not part with him for any consideration." 

" By the by, Grahame," said George Browne, " is not 
that an indiscretion in your prudent brother? Such a horse 
must have cost no small sum at first, and then the expense 
of keeping him on these journeys must be considerable. It 
would be nothing for you, or me ; but your brother, you 
know " 

" Is wiser than both of us put together," said Richard 
Grahame ; who, however he might quarrel with his brother 
himself, seemed to be little pleased with censures on him 
from another, " and in this instance has not departed from 
his usual wisdom. He bought Ebony quite a colt from a 
gentleman who was removing from Springfield, and as his 
journeys are always connected with business requiring dis- 
patch, he finds that the time gained over our slow stage- 
coaches, added to the sum he must have paid for the use of 
a public conveyance, abundantly repays the expense of this, 
I verily believe, the only indulgence which Robert allows 

Donald impatiently spurred his horse. These pruden- 
tial arrangements savored too much of Yankeeism in his es- 
timation. He could not make them accord with the impres- 
sion of the noble bearing that had won his admiration so 
lately. That a gentleman might not be able to afford a fine 


horse, he could understand ; but that he could calculate so 
closely the expense of keeping one, was, in his opinion, a 
littleness characteristic of a Yankee only. 

Donald rode to Camp's stables, and having consigned 
his horse to the care of a groom, prepared to attend his com- 
panions. Little did .he suppose that this arrangement had 
been made solely to give them an excuse for entering the 
Maison du Mer in the rear from a narrow, unfrequented 
street, leading in that direction from the stables, and that 
this circuitous route was recommended chiefly because it 
would enable them to elude him whose promised visit was 
now his chief attraction to the party. The plan was com- 
pletely successful. Reaching the rear entrance unseen, he 
and his conductors were immediately admitted on knocking, 
and passing up a private staircase, they found themselves at 
once at the rooms we have described as appropriated to 
play. Richard Grahame paused at the door to say a few 
words in an inaudible voice aside to the landlord, and then 
led the way within. It was two o'clock in the morning 
when, flushed with wine, and with a brain sadly confused in 
the vain effort to compute a sum in loss and gain, Donald 
Montrose issued from that room. The Rubicon was passed. 
He was on that declivity whose downward tendency it be- 
comes ever more difficult to resist. 

"With an aching head, and a manner in which sudden 
flashes of reckless gayety contended vainly with unusual 
gloom, he presented himself on the afternoon succeeding at 
the lodgings of Richard Grahame. He was expected, and 
found Browne and Grahame together. After some embar- 
rassed attempts at conversation, Donald suddenly interrupt- 
ing Grahame in a very animated account of a race he had 
witnessed that morning between two rival yachts, suddenly ex- 
claimed, "By the by. I am indebted to you both, I believe; 
but how much, I am ashamed to acknowledge I do not know." 


" Oh ! a mere bagatelle," cried Browne. " which it would 
scarcely be worth your while to talk of settling, as the next 
shuffle of the cards, or roll of the balls, may reverse the 
tables, and make us your debtors." 

" In which case, we poor devils should not find it as easy 
perhaps to settle as a Southerner, with a hundred darkies 
working for him ; so, you see, it would be bad policy for us to 
permit you to establish any such precedent," said Grahame. 

" There is little probability of our changing places," replied 
Donald ; " but should we do so, I promise you I shall not be 
a hard creditor. In the mean time, if I do not pay you, 
shall I give you my note for the amount of my debt ?" 

" I see you are quite a novice, Montrose," said Browne, 
" I must initiate you into our customs. Between strangers 
immediate payment would be necessary, but between friends, 
as we are," Donald winced a little, " each party keeps a 
memorandum of losses and gains which, when we are parting, 
may be balanced in hard money, or if this be not convenient, 
in a note payable at any time that suits the convenience of 
the giver." 

" Suppose that should be never ?" suggested Donald. 

u That is somewhat longer credit than we have been ac- 
customed to give or ask, though mine may prove to be 
little less, should mon bon papa live as long as his looks 
when I saw him last seemed to promise. You look puzzled, 
Montrose ; did you never hear of post obits ? I find their 
moral effect admirable, I assure you. They are great 
strengtheners of the filial sentiment." 

" I should think post obits among us, where property is 
never entailed, were not very safe investments." 

" Unless the debtor be, like you or myself, an only son. 
I should think it in your case a capital investment, as you 
know they always bear high interest ; so remember, should 
you desire to do me a favor, you have only to give me notes 


at parting for some ten or fifteen thousand dollars, payable 
when you are master of Montrose Hall." 

Donald laughed, yet with no hearty mirth, for he could 
not hear without a pang, these light allusions to the death 
of his generous, noble father. Nevertheless this conversation 
was not without its influence on his future actions. His 
self-indulgent nature was ever ready to sacrifice the future to 
the present, and the debt which might have seemed formidable 
enough to frighten him from his unsafe pursuits faded into 
nothing when viewed in the distant future. He delivered 
himself up, therefore, without reserve or hesitation to the 
guidance of Browne and Grahame. His life was now one of 
intense and dangerous excitement. There were moments, in- 
deed, in which reason awoke ; but her reproaches were so bitter, 
that he hastened to drown them again in the intoxication of 
pleasure. No friendly hand was outstretched to lead him 
from his wanderings back to the better path. Alice, 
indeed, reproaching herself as the cause of the evil whose 
extent she little suspected, would gladly, by almost any 
sacrifice, have won back the confidence and the influence of 
former days ; but the lowering brow, and cold, curt sentences 
of Donald, took from her all the courage necessary for such 
a task. His mother and sister, on the other hand, made the 
fatal mistake into which noble, but proud spirits so often 
fall ; they showed rather their scorn of his vices than their 
tenderness to himself, and thus repelled instead of attracting 
him. So far from confiding in them, from seeking their aid, 
when some flashing gleam of light showed him his true po- 
sition ; he fled from their presence as from his bitterest pun- 
ishment, and would rather have led a forlorn hope to battle, 
than have remained five minutes alone with his mother. 
His father was unfortunately absent, having gone with Charles 
to Washington, hoping by his presence there, and his in- 
fluence with an old friend, now Secretary of the Navy, to 
promote his nephew's professional interests. 


Every thing seemed to conspire for Donald's ruin, and to 
favor the plan of his tempters. Even Robert Grahame, 
whose threatened interference they might have found it 
impossible long to elude, had disappeared from Newport on 
the third day after his introduction to the reader. He had 
been absent a month, when Richard Grahame received a let- 
ter addressed in his brother's handwriting. 

" From Robert," he exclaimed with some surprise ; and 
opening it hastily, perceived that another letter was enclosed 
in an envelope, containing the following lines : 

" The enclosed was forwarded to me by mistake, from 
the Newport post-office ; having been addressed, as you 
will see, only to R. Grahame. It was not till I had master- 
ed its infamous contents, through the disguise of miserable 
penmanship, and worse spelling, that I ascertained the mis- 
take. In returning it to you, I have only to say, that I 
hold to the determination expressed when last we met ; and 
that I shall be with you when you least expect me. 


With a failing heart, Richard Grahame opened the let- 
ter enclosed, and the color flushed to his brow, as he read 
the coarse terms in which the writer one of those with 
whom his evil habits had brought him into association 
questioned him concerning the success of his present " chase" 
which he supposed must be promising, as he had heard that 
" the game had been seen flying through the back-door of 
the Maison du Mer." Scarcely glancing at the remaining 
lines, which contained only a hope that this anticipated suc- 
cess would enable him to pay a debt long due to the writer, 
Richard Grahame cast the letter impatiently from his hand, 
and was striding to and fro with rapid steps, when Browne 
entered without the ceremony of a knock. 

" Read that !" cried Grahame, as he threw rather than 
handed him the letter which had agitated him thus : and 


stood observing him with no pleasant expression, while he 
ran his eyes rapidly over its contents. 

" The devil fly away with that brother of yours for a 
meddlesome fool !" exclaimed Browne as he concluded. 
" How soon do you suppose we may expect him ?" 

" I do not know ; he moves so quickly when he has a de- 
sign to execute, that I should not wonder to see him at any 

" Then I have no time to lose in seeing Montrose and 
bringing him to a settlement ; he has proposed it several 
times, and I have put him off, that he might not be frighten- 
ed away at the sight of the sum total, of which I verily be- 
lieve he has not the slightest suspicion, as I know he keeps 
no account of his losses or gains." 

" And you care little that he should be frightened away, 
now that your own objects are accomplished ; though I, who 
came here on your account, and have done all in my power 
to promote your ends, am not one dollar the better for it all. 
I am certainly entitled to claim at least the return of my 
note to you. You promised that if I aided you " 

" I promised to exchange your note to me for that of 
Lieut. Montrose to you, and I am ready to do so." 

" You have never given me an opportunity to play with 
him, and now you are about to do what you say yourself 
will frighten him from the gaming-table." 

" I said no such thing : it will frighten him from me, 
no doubt, but with a little management, will only throw him 
the more certainly into your hands." 

" I do not see how." 

" By encouraging him to believe that his success with 
you may counterbalance his ill-luck with me." 

" Encouraging him to believe ! a very pretty phrase, 
and easily spoken ; but he must be a greater fool than I 
take him for, if any suggestion of the kind you propose 
from me, would be received as encouraging." 


" Perhaps if you keep your temper till you understand 
my plan, you may not find it so fit a subject for irony as 
you seem now to think it. Suppose I make the suggestion, 
and invite him to witness a game between us ; do you not 
think if you can put such constraint upon yourself as to re- 
frain from winning my money, that you may have an oppor- 
tunity given you to win some of his ?" 

" I see your plan it looks well j whether it succeeds or 
not, I certainly think I deserve some consideration from you, 
for having given up my time and engaged in what was so 
distasteful to me. only to promote your advantage." 

" Most disinterested, I acknowledge," sneered Browne, 
but instantly added, "but we will not quarrel, for Satan 
must not be divided against himself. I will do what I 
can for you, but have no time to talk more now I must find 

It was but half an hour after, that having met Donald, 
Browne accompanied him to his own room, that they might 
talk over, without danger of interruption, the state of the 
account current between them. Regretting that the neces- 
sity for his leaving Newport the next day a necessity the 
consequence, as he said, of letters just received should 
oblige him* to terminate, for the present, an intercourse most 
agreeable to him ; he added, that perhaps they had better 
compare their memoranda, and ascertain the present state of 
the account between them. Donald had no memoranda. 
The suggestion so early and artfully made by Browne, that 
his note made payable after an event, which his affectionate 
reverence for his father disposed him to consider only at a 
remote distance, would be received as present satisfaction 
for his debt, had made him, as Browne well knew it would, 
less careful of the- amount of that debt. To a prudent 
mind, it may seem strange that the mention of large inter- 
est did not serve as a counterpoise to this postponement. 


But Donald was not prudent ; like all the self-indulgent, he 
was ever prone to sacrifice the future to the present. Be- 
sides, with that common error which regards the reverse of 
wrong as right, he had been taught in his Southern home, 
that the first characteristic of a gentleman was, to prove 
himself untainted with a narrow, money-loving, or as they 
termed it, Yankee spirit ; and that this was to be done, not 
by a wise and systematic benevolence, but by thoughtless 
profusion and disregard of money. To have kept a regular 
account of his losses and gains, would have savored of the 
petty shopkeeper in his opinion. 

" Browne will take care that I do not cheat him ; I war- 
rant he is Yankee enough for that !" 

Yet Donald was not wholly blind to the fact, that he 
was losing a great deal of money ; but with the philosophy 
which sustained Jacob Faithful in a better cause, he said to 
himself, " better luck next time," or took refuge in the 
thought that the evil day was far distant. He was indeed 
somewhat unpleasantly surprised when the sum total of his 
loss stood before him, and he found that it must be comput- 
ed by thousands ; and that these thousands, with the inter- 
est embodied in the note to avoid the charge of usury, 
amounted to five. He might even have betraye'd some an- 
noyance, had not Browne prefaced the expose by some com- 
plimentary expressions on the freedom with which a South- 
ern gentleman always parted with his money. As it was, 
he controlled all expression of feeling, and with easy gayety 
commented on his own ill-luck, while he signed, without 
reading, the note prepared by Browne. 

" This has been a most wonderful run of luck for me," said 
Browne, as he folded the note and put it in his pocket-book ; 
" I dare say when next we meet, you will win it all back." 

" I think it will be wiser in me not to try. I have suf- 
ficiently proved my want of skill at cards." 


" So any one might have thought of Richard Grahame, 
when we met here last summer. I beat him at whist, at 
rouge-et-noir, at every thing we tried, till he had lost more 
as I well knew than he could afford to pay, and I was fool 
enough to try him at billiards, the only game he can play 
and I cannot." 

"Do you think he plays billiards well? I have beaten 
him whenever we have played together." 

"Have you? well, he beat me confoundedly. I wish 
Montrose, in charity, you would win from him some of the 
thousands I owe him, and let me pay you with your own 
note. Post obits will not do for him, he wants ready money, 
and it is an article I do not find it easy to get." 

" I should like to oblige you in this way very much," said 
Donald laughingly, " if I were sure of the result." 

" There can be little doubt of that, if you have beaten 
him at billiards, for it is the only game he has any preten- 
sion to play well." 

" Does he go with you ?" 

" No ; and if he did, I would delay a day or two, for 
the pleasure of seeing you try your fortune with him. Sup- 
pose I propose it to him, and you meet us at the Maison du 
Mer this evening?" 

tt I have no objection." 

" These were indifferent words, and spoken in an indiffer- 
ent tone, yet beneath this coldness lay a burning desire and 
an exulting hope. Inconsistent as it may seem, that which 
the pleasure-loving Donald could dismiss from his mind as a 
trifle wholly unworthy of thought, while thought could bring 
only pain and self-reproach, in the dim twilight of the hope 
now opening before him, assumed a fearful magnitude, and 
presented its threatening aspect wherever he turned. He 
knew that with large estates, his father had seldom ready 
money at command. To meet a claim even of five thousand 


dollars, would at any time, if immediate payment were de- 
manded, compel him to sell property ; and property thus sold 
must, he was aware, be sacrificed. To acknowledge this 
debt to him then would be painful, indulgent as he was ; but 
should he avail himself of the arrangement made this morn- 
ing with Browne, should this debt remain as a claim against 
him to be met he would not even to himself say when his 
father was in his grave, but when he was sole master of 
Montrose Hall how should he bear his mother's sorrowful, 
yet haughty rebuke? how could he meet her indignant glance 
when she should learn that he had suffered himself to antici- 
pate his father's death, she would perhaps believe with a 
certain satisfaction, as releasing him from the bondage of 
debt? Then his father himself, how could he receive his ac- 
customed indulgent love and generous kindness for years to 
come, and keep this dark and painful secret from him? Such 
were the thoughts which, once having gained admittance to 
his mind, he could not dismiss or silence. They would have 
goaded him to madness had he not found refuge in the hope 
which Browne had inspired. The more he dwelt upon this 
hope, the more sanguine was he of its fulfilment. Billiards, 
Browne had told him, was that in which Grahame was most 
successful, and at billiards he had proved he was his supe- 
rior. He examined his watch, he counted the hours to 
evening, and ten o'clock found him at his old place, and with 
his old companions at the Maison du Mer. 

And where now was the lofty spirit which considered the 
desire of gain degrading to a gentlemanly nature? His 
heart is on fire with the passions of the gamester, and they 
are casting their lurid light upon his face. How painfully 
would the good Mr. Dunbar have marked the change in his 
pupil, could he have seen the sullen brow, the eager eye, the 
closely-compressed lips, the flush or pallor betokening the 
alternations of hope and fear, which had replaced the frank, 


joyous expression of former days. Ah ! how true it is that 
sorrow never leaves us as it found us. If we receive it sub- 
missively, as the cup which a Father's love hath mingled, it 
purifies, exalts, and strengthens; but if we rebelliously dash 
it from our lips, and strive to wash away its bitterness by 
the intoxicating wine of pride, or the honeyed draught of 
Circean pleasure, the hardening or the debasement of our 
nature is the inevitable consequence. 

For once Donald left the scene of his midnight pleasures 
with an elastic step and a heart full of hope. The succeed- 
ing evening found him at the same place, with the same com- 
panions, and the same objects, but not the same success. 
Whether the fortune of the preceding night had made him 
less, or his opponent more cautious, or whether fickle Fortune 
had already wearied of her favor to him, we know not, but 
he lost, and with every game became more agitated, less 
able to cope with his cool, unruffled antagonists antagonists 
we say, for though Richard Graham e played the game, 
Browne was present, and manifested an interest which at 
once surprised and irritated Donald. As again and again 
he found himself foiled in his effort to retrieve losses which 
he almost feared to compute, he resorted to wine to sustain 
his failing spirits, wine which excited without intoxicating 
him. It was late in the night, when, turning from rouge- 
et-noir, he exclaimed, " Fortune is against me here ; let us 
try billiards." 

" Billiards !" ejaculated Grahame, with a yawn, " I fear 
I shall go to sleep over them ; however, I must not refuse 
your challenge." 

They turned towards the billiard table, and both, at the 
same instant, became aware that among the few remaining 
to watch their now exciting contest, was one of whose pre- 
sence they had not before been conscious. When or how he 
had come, they knew not, but Donald met again those calm, 


earnest eyes, and, even while the flush of shame rose to his 
brow for his present engagement, felt there was a friendly 
interest in their gaze which strengthened him. 

Far different was its effect on his antagonist. Richard 
Grahame flushed, grew pale, hesitated, and at last, stopping 
short in his advance to the table, " It is too late to play bil- 
liards to-night, Montrose ; I will have a game with you to- 
morrow, if you like." 

" No ! it must be to night," said Donald doggedly, his 
determination only rendered firmer by the vacillation of Gra- 
hame. " You cannot." he added, " refuse to give me an op- 
portunity to redeem some of my losses." 

Richard Grahame raised his eyes slowly, and as if by an 
involuntary impulse, to his brother's face, and answered, 
" Be it as you will." 

" The same stakes ?" said Donald inquiringly. 

" I am not accustomed to play so high at billiards." 

" Well, half five hundred shall it be?" 

Again looking towards that silent, and, as it seemed to 
him, stern face, Richard Grahame answered, ' As you will." 

They played Richard Grahame in a quick, nervous 
way, Donald better, more quietly, feeling, he knew not why, 
that a friend was near him, and turning again and again 
to those kindly eyes, which were evidently marking every 
turn of the game. He won. 

" Ah, Grahame !" he cried. " the fickle goddess is desert- 
ing you. Well, you must not grudge me some of her favors. 
After your success this evening, you will not be such a nig- 
gard surely, as to refuse to double the stakes ?" 

Again Richard Grahame consented, and again Donald 
was successful. 

" And now, Montrose, I must stop ; see there, it is morn- 
ing," pointing to a clock whose hour-hand was moving fast 
to four. 


" One more game, it shall be our last ; you will not sure- 
ly refuse, and I will double all my whole debt, or clear all." 

''Double all?" 

" Yes, or cancel all. Come, you see you risk nothing, I 
every thing shall it be ?" 

"I I " stammered the unwilling gamester; but a 
spell was on him, and again he faltered, " if you will have 
it so," in spite of a warning " ahem !" from Browne, who with 
a darkened brow immediately left the room, and remained 
absent for some minutes. When he returned, he saw quick- 
ly, that though Grahame was playing with greater caution, 
Donald, who was in truth the best player in a fair game, had 
the advantage. Then came a crisis in his game, a position 
of the balls in which, with a single stroke, by hazarding much 
he might win all. Carefully he bent himself to his task, he 
took his aim, at that moment a voice was heard, not loud, 
for that would not have been permitted, but suddenly, and 
therefore startlingly, breaking the deathlike stillness with 
the name of Mr. Robert Grahame. Was it this, or was it 
that the guardian eyes were for a moment withdrawn ? we 
know not we only know that Donald's stroke failed, that 
he became nervous, that the game was lost. At the last 
there was a chance for him, he might have recovered him- 
self he failed and turning upon Browne, he exclaimed 
with uncontrollable anger, " That was your fault, sir ! and by 
my soul, I believe you did it purposely." 

" You are mad, Montrose ! Did what ? what could I do 
at such a distance to affect your play ?" 

" What you did, I cannot say ; but something I am sure 
the waving of a handkerchief or a hand, enough at least, 
to dazzle my eyes, strained as they already were." 

" Strained ! that will explain the whole, and exonerate me 
to every one in his senses. You would not have played for 
Such a stake, at such an hour, if you had taken my advice." 


" Your advice !" 

Donald's tone and look were contemptuous, and Browne 
was stung into saying, " Pray be calm gentlemen" with 
a peculiar emphasis on the word " here do not lose their 
temper, because they have lost their money." 

Donald turned towards him a face pale with passion, and 
lifting the cue he held, exclaimed, " Be silent, sir, or I will 
treat you as the base hound deserves, that turns upon the 
master on whom he fawned but yesterday." 

" If you were not a madman " 

Before Browne could utter another word, the uplifted 
cue descended, and the next moment Donald seized him by 
the collar, and swinging him around, hurled him across the 
room with such force, that his head, striking against the 
carved and projecting foot of a sofa, he lay stunned and 
seemingly lifeless, with a few drops of blood oozing slowly 
from the temple. The whole scene had passed too rapidly 
for interference, but now there were confused cries in many 
voices, and the landlord of the Maison du Mer. having dis- 
patched a servant for a surgeon, turned to Donald, exclaim- 
ing, " I believe you have killed the man, sir, and I must de- 
tain you at least till I hear what the surgeon will say." 

He spoke to one who did not heed who seemed not to 
hear him. The paleness of Donald's face had been succeed 
ed by a purple flush, and he stood in the attitude in which 
he had hurled Browne from him ; so motionless, that but for 
the darkened face and heaving bosom, he would have resem- 
bled more a sculptured athlete than a living man. 

" Stand aside, gentlemen, and give the man air," said a 
voice not loud, but clear and commanding by its resolute 
composure, where all else seemed confused and agitated. 
The crowd gave way, and Robert Grahame stood beside 
the prostrate Browie. Loosing his cravat, he bathed his 
brows, and soon saw the color return to his lips, and his 


eyelids quiver with reawakening life. He felt his pulse 
its throb was feeble but regular, and having no farther ap- 
prehension of danger for him, he consigned him to the care 
of his brother, and turned his attention to Donald. Ap- 
proaching him as he stood in the attitude we have described, 
he said, " Do not be alarmed, sir ; Mr. Browne is in no dan- 

Donald did not stir, nor did any change of countenance 
show that he had heard what was said. Laying his hand on 
his shoulder to rouse him, Robert Grahame repeated this 
observation. The touch sent a shiver through Donald's 
frame, but this was his only movement. Grahame was 
alarmed, and a physician with whom he was acquainted 
entering at this moment, accompanied by the servant, who 
had been dispatched for him, he exclaimed, " This way, doc- 
tor ; the man to whom you were called is but little hurt, I 
think, but this poor fellow, who did the injury, seems alarm- 
ingly ill." 

" Bad affair, sir, bad affair," said the worthy doctor, as, 
having given one glance to the still prostrate Browne, he 
put on his spectacles, and peered into Donald's face with 
more deliberate and careful examination. 

" Too much blood about the head too much blood about 
the head ;" then pressing his finger on the pulse, he added, 
a Full hard slow just as I thought ; he must be bled, 
sir no time to lose ;" and suiting the action to the word, 
the good doctor drew out his case of lancets, and. asking for 
a knife, began to rip up the sleeve of Donald's coat. 

" Had he not better be removed before he is bled, doc- 
tor ?" asked Robert Grahame; "the appearance of this room 
would probably renew his agitation, if his consciousness were 
restored here." 

" Right, sir, but we must not attempt to remove him far. 
Dougherty, have you a room on this floor unoccupied ?" 


" Yes, sir," and the landlord, to whom the question was 
addressed, led the way to another room, Dr. Darley and 
Robert Grahame following, with the unconscious Donald be- 
tween them. A vein was quickly opened in his arm, and as 
the blood flowed, the rigor of his limbs relaxed,; and his 
pulse became less tense. 

" That has saved him from apoplexy," said the doctor, 
" and now I will go look after the other man. Don't be 
afraid," he continued, in answer to the looks rather than 
the words of Robert Grahame ; " let him bleed take some 
of that bad blood out of him ; good thing for all these young 
chaps to bleed them occasionally less blood, more brains." 

Dr. Darley muttered the last observation to himself, as 
he was proceeding to the room in which he had left Browne. 
He was gone but a few minutes, and returned with the plea- 
sant announcement, " He will do well enough ; wanted no- 
thing but some sticking plaster." 

As he spoke, Donald opened his eyes, but quickly closed 
them again, with a languid expression. 

" Ah, that's right ! that's about right !" repeated the doc- 
tor, as, after touching the pulse, he proceeded to stop the 
bleeding, and arrange the compress and bandages which he 
had procured during his absence. 

" He is fainting, doctor," cried Robert Grahame. 

" Yes, sir, but we will lay him on the bed, and that will 
soon pass away." 

It did pass away, but this was only manifest in a slight 
change of color and variation of pulse. Donald continued 
motionless, with closed eyes. In vain the doctor spoke 
again of Browne, with the hope of rousing him ; not even a 
look evinced interest in the subject. 

" There is something wrong here," said the physician, 
drawing Robert Grahame aside. " Do you know this young 
man's friends ?" 


" I have no personal acquaintance with them, but I know 
who they are and where they are to be found." 

" Then go to them at once. I will not leave him till he 
is in their hands. But who is he ?" 

" Lieut. Montrose, of the army His family, I have un- 
derstood, are from the South." 

" I'll warrant that accounts for it all. Idle, and so, 
dissipated that's the history of these Southern chaps." 

" Ah, doctor ! not of them only. This young man is, I 
fear, more sinned against than sinning." 

" Nonsense ! Excuse me, Mr. Grahame, but I am 
ashamed to hear you talk such nonsense ; it's the sinning, 
not the being sinned against, that put him there, sir." 

Robert Grahame did not contest the point with the 
plain-spoken doctor, but with a sad smile turned from him 
to perform his painful duty. Before leaving the house, he 
sought his brother, whom he found pacing the parlor of the 
inn alone, George Browne having retired to a room to sleep 
off the effects of fatigue and excitement. 

" How is he, Robert ?" asked Richard Grahame anxiously, 
as his brother entered. 

" I scarcely know the worst danger seems to have pass- 
ed away yet he does not speak, and exhibits such symptoms 
that by the doctor's desire I am going to his friends." 

Richard Grahame resumed his walk with quicker steps, 
and a deeper shadow on his brow. His brother stood beside 
the mantel-piece, on which he leaned, observing him for 
some minutes in silence, which he broke at length only to say in 
a low yet impressive tone, " Richard, this is a sad business." 

" Sad indeed," was the response, but Richard Grahame, 
even while speaking, carefully avoided his brother's eyes. 

" You will, of course, be anxious to clear yourself of any 
participation in what I firmly believe Lieut. Montrose was 
right in considering the fraudulent dealings of Browne 


There is but one way, I think, in which you can do this, and 
that is, by relinquishing all claim on this young man or his 
friends for any money lost by him at play. I hope you will 
do this, Richard, for your own sake may I say for my sake 
for the sake of the name we bear," there was in the voice 
of the speaker no vehemence, but a deep earnestness which 
Richard Grahame seemed to find it difficult to resist. 

" Robert," he Said, " I wish I could do as you desire, but 
indeed I cannot it is impossible." 

" What impossibility can there be in it ? You know it 
would be right, that you ought to do it, and what we ought 
to do we can do. Come, Richard," he added, as he thought 
he saw some yielding in his face, K do this and I will help 
you as far as I can out of any present difficulties." 

" Indeed. Robert, I cannot ; Browne holds my note for 
for a sum quite as large as I have won from Montrose ; 
these winnings are in truth his, not mine." 

" It is indeed then a hopeless case," said Robert Gra- 

pp<]prl on his melancholy 




I, as a child, will go by thy direction." 


'And thus the whirligig of Time brings in his revenges." 


IT is a trite remark that there is something peculiarly beau- 
tiful in the tie that unites a father and daughter. The rev- 
erence and obedience which a son rarely renders without 
some effort, is the spontaneous tribute of a daughter's heart, 
and the authority which has in it ordinarily somewhat of 
sternness to a son, is tempered to a daughter by a chivalrous 
gentleness. Of this character was the tie between Alice 
and her uncle ; yet it may be that her reverence was 
more profound, her obedience more cheerful and exact, and 
that his gentleness wore a shade of deeper tenderness be- 
cause of the consciousness that the tie was not altogether 
one of nature's weaving. Free-will offerings are ever the 
most abundant. Thus Alice more frequently than Isabelle 
shared the early walks and rides of Col. Montrose, copied 
his letters, read his newspapers, and performed for him all 
those little kindly offices which elderly gentlemen are accus- 
tomed to claim from their young friends, and which affection 
delights to render. 

And now, while Donald was terminating a night of restless 
-.uid guilty excitement by an act of murderous passion, Alice 
'saving risen from the refreshing sleep of health and inno- 


cence, having made her careful yet simple toilet, and pre- 
pared herself for the duties of the day by reading a portion 
of G-od's holy word, and bowing her knees in reverent ac- 
knowledgment of His goodness, and earnest supplication of 
His grace, had descended to the parlor, where her uncle al- 
ready awaited her promised coming, to copy some letters 
which must be sent by this day's post. They were answers, 
for the most part, to those which had accumulated during 
his late visit to Washington, from which he had returned 
only the preceding day. He was writing when Alice enter- 
fid, and so absorbed that he did not perceive her till, steal- 
ing gently to his side, she laid her hand on his, and accost- 
ed him with, " Are you punishing me for being late, uncle, 
by doing your writing yourself?" 

" No, darling," he said as he gave her his good morning 
kiss, " you are not late. This is a letter I must write my- 
self, but there are the rough draughts of two which you can 
copy for me." ^_ 

For some minutes they wrote in silence. Col. Montrose 
finished his letter, and having sealed and addressed it it 
was to the Secretary at War he sat for some time buried in 
thought. A deep sigh from him caused Alice to look up. 
His eyes were fixed upon her, and as he met her anxious 
glance, he smiled, but Alice thought the smile was sad. 
Though she could not venture to ask him what was the 
matter, she looked concerned and he saw it, and answered it 
by saying, " I feel anxious about Donald, Alice ; I find he 
has not been at home since yesterday morning, and before I 
went away I thought he was looking gloomy and unhappy. 
Do you know what is the matter with him ?" 

Alice was very truthful, and had no aptitude at evasion. 
As she could not say " no," she said nothing, but hung her 
head and played with her pen, while the color flushed to her 


Having observed her silently for a moment, Col. Mon- 
trose took her hand, and drawing her to his knee, folded his 
arm around her and bent his head so as to look in her down- 
cast face as he asked softly, " Alice, does Donald love you 
with more than a brother's love ?" Alice hid her face on 
his shoulder as he continued, "Tell me, my darling, is it so? 
Does he seek my Alice for his wife ?" 

Her lips moved, and bending his ear to them, he heard 
the murmured assent which scarce shaped itself into words. 

" And have you refused niy poor boy, Alice ? Will you 
not marry him ?" 

His tone was sad ; Alice thought it was reproachful. 
It was the first reproach she had ever heard from him, and 
she could not bear it ; tears rushed to her eyes, her bosom 
heaved, and, passing her arm around his neck, and creeping 
closer to his bosom, she whispered, " I will do as you wish, 

" My darling !" he exclaimed, as he kissed her forehead 
and put back the curls which fell as a veil over her face ; 
" and did you doubt that I would wish it ? Was this the 
cause of your refusal ?" 

Alice hesitated, and before she could decide on her an- 
swer, there was a rap at the door, and, putting her off his 
knee, her uncle rose and opened it. 

What character there is. in a voice ! Alice had expected 
to hear her uncle addressed by a servant, and the words 
" Do I speak to Col. Montrose ?" had nothing in them which 
would determine the character of the speaker, yet, before she 
raised her eyes, Alice felt that he was a gentleman, and a 
gentleman of refinement and of earnest feeling. Entering 
the room at the invitation of Col. Montrose, Kobert G-raharne 
gently and cautiously communicated to the anxious father 
the illness of his son. Doubtful how far the habits of the 
son were known to the father, divided between his desire to 


leave nothing untold, which should be known to Col. Mon" 
trose, and his indisposition to act the part of a spy and an 
informer, there was in the manner of Robert Grahame a de- 
gree of embarrassment and restraint very unusual to him, and 
which, conveying to the quick eye of affection the idea of some- 
thing that he was anxious to conceal, excited more alarm 
perhaps than the truth would have done. The first appre- 
hension was evidently of a duel, and the blood, whose equa- 
ble flow no fear for himself had ever disturbed, retreated to 
the heart of the old soldier, and his stalwart frame quivered 
like a reed, as, leaning for support on the chair by which he 
stood, he questioned the stranger in a voice that vainly strove 
to seem firm. Alice had hitherto remained unobserved in 
a distant part of the room, but in her uncle's agitation and 
her own alarm for Donald, her usual reserve was forgotten, 
and gliding to his side, she, too, fixed on the stranger ear- 
nestly inquiring eyes. Even in that moment of confusion, 
Robert Grahame felt an emotion which mere beauty had 
never before awakened in him, as that face of childlike in- 
nocence was turned to him, and he met the gaze of eyes, 

so pure, that, from their ray, 

Dark vice would turn abashed away, 
Blinded like serpents when they gaze 
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze. 

As the best means of allaying the fears thus excited, Robert 
Grahame, without referring to the cause of the dispute, nar- 
rated, simply and truthfully, the attack made by Donald on 
Browne, and described the alarming condition induced by 
his excitement. 

" But what occasioned this attack, or what was Donald 
doing at that house a house which has never appeared to 
me very reputable ?" 

" Would it not be better, sir, to reserve these questions 


till your son, who must have the fullest knowledge of the 
facts, may answer them for himself? His health seems to 
me, at present, the first consideration, and that, I think, re- 
quires that he should as soon as possible be attended by 
those with whose faces and voices he is most familiar." 

" You are right, sir ; I will only communicate these sad 
tidings to my boy's mother, and accompany you to him, if, 
indeed," he added, " I may so far trespass on your time." 

" I am here for that purpose." 

" You are very kind. May I ask the name of one to 
whose friendly interest we are so much indebted ?" 

" My name is Grahame Robert Grahaine," he added, 
with some emphasis on the Christian name. 

Alice raised her eyes and turned them on him with an 
expression of surprise, as she said, hesitatingly, " A friend 
of Mr. Browne, I believe?" 

There was a slight erection of the head, a slight degree 
of hauteur in the tone with which he replied, " I am not so 
fortunate, madam" after a moment's pause, he continued, 
with a subdued tone and manner, " The gentleman to whom 
you allude is Mr. Richard Grahame ;" he did not say, my 

Mrs. Montrose would not delay her husband, but she 
soon followed him to the bedside of her son, whom she found 
in the delirium of fever. 

" Inflammation of the brain, I fear," said the physician ; 
" produced, as I believe, by great and long-continued excite- 

As she entered, Robert Grahame moved from the bed, 
where he had stood, pressing his hand upon the fevered brow 
of the patient. As he withdrew, the low mutterings of 
Donald became a loud, impatient call, while he tossed rest- 
lessly from side to side. 

" You must come back, Mr. Grahame," said the physi- 


cian, " no one else seems to have the same control over these 
paroxysms that you have ; you must calm them for us till 
medicine has time to act." 

Robert Grahame checked his advance to the door, and 
stood looking hesitatingly to the parents, who had turned 
towards him at the address of the physician. 

" We have no right to trespass on your time," said Col. 
Montrose, " but if you could " 

u I can I will, most cheerfully gladly." 

He made a step back, but paused again, as he caught 
the steadfast gaze of Mrs. Montrose, who, in her sadness, 
had lost nothing of her dignified self-possession. In her 
eyes he read doubt, investigation ; and he met them with a 
quiet gravity, which seemed neither to defy nor dread in- 
quiry. Her doubts, if doubts she had, were quickly satis- 
fied. Perhaps only he had observed her hesitation, when, 
holding out her hand, she said in cordial accents, " How 
shall we thank you for such kindness, such interest in stran- 

Pressing with respectful sympathy the hand presented 
to him, Robert G-rahame, without other answer, resumed 
his place beside Donald, whose tossings ceased in a few min- 
utes, while his loud tones sank into gentle murmurings. 

" That is what I call animal magnetism," said the doc- 
tor, with a grim smile, " and now, madam, I will leave my 
patient for awhile to you and Mr. Grahame. May I say a 
few words to you, sir ?" he added to Col. Montrose then, 
as he saw the anxious looks of the parents, he continued, " I 
have no special communication to make of your son's illness, 
you see as much of it as I do, at present ; but some know- 
ledge of its causes may help me in its treatment ; and these 
you may aid me in discovering." 

" Could not Mr. Grahame give us the information we 
want?" suggested Col. Montrose. 


" I don't choose to ask him," said the physician bluntly ; 
" at least not if I can learn what I want to know from 
any other source." 

Robert Graham e thanked him by a smile, and Col. Mon- 
trose withdrew with him from the room. 

" You, seem to know this Mr. Grahame, doctor," said he, 
as they sat together awaiting the landlord for whom they 
had sent. 

" I do sir, I know him for as honest and honorable a 
man as lives. I know too that he has a brother who is a 
cross betwixt knave and fool ; and whom I suspect of hav- 
ing had a hand in this business though how Robert Gra- 
hame got himself mixed up with it, I cannot understand." 

The landlord came, but no promises of impunity, or 
even of reward, could induce him to make any farther rev- 
elations, than circumstances had already made to the doc- 
tor. It may have been, as he said, that he only knew that 
the sick gentleman " had played cards or billiards frequent- 
ly with Mr. Browne, or Mr. Grahame, and that he had lost 
some money ; he could not tell how much, last night." 

" Had Mr. Robert Grahame ever been in the room in 
which I found him, before last night?" asked Dr. Darley. 

" No, sir: and I was puzzled to know how he found his way 
there, till Mr. Browne told me he had received a letter that 
was meant for his brother." 

" Aha ! I understand directed to Mr. R. Grahame ; 
well, it is not the first time that initial letter has done mis- 
chief," and the doctor laughed a dry, short laugh. " Well, 
sir," he continued to the landlord, " you are more cautious 
than communicative, I see ; but you may at least tell Mr. 
Browne, that he has lost his labor in this business, for that 
he cannot recover one red cent of any money he has won." 

" Excuse me. doctor, but he must tell him no such thing ; 
as soon as I can ascertain from my son what his debts 


really are, they shall be paid to the last penny, if it be with- 
in my power." 

" A pretty encouragement for gambling !" muttered the 
doctor then, in a louder tone, as he led the way back to 
Donald's room, " I think I will try your son at billiards my- 
self when he gets well ; it will be an easier way of making 
a few thousands than setting broken limbs, or patching up 
worn out constitutions." 

Mrs. Montrose sustained her husband in the determina- 
tion thus expressed. " Better poverty," she said. " than the 
shadow of obligation to bad men." 

It was many days before Donald could suffer anxiety or 
experience relief from these resolves. The disappointments, 
the bitter repinings, the reckless self-abandonment of the 
last few weeks of his life, were all forgotten ; and his spirit, 
escaping from the restlessness and weariness of his sick 
room, was wandering far away by the dashing waves, or 
leafy savannahs, of the home of his childhood. As the 
scenes so vividly pictured by his fevered imagination arose 
before his mother's eye, they awoke in her soul a painful feel- 
ing of self-condemnation. With wonderful distinctness, in 
the silent watches of those long anxious nights, she saw the 
influence which she had exerted in moulding the character 
of her son. And now, when he seemed to be rapidly pass- 
ing to another world, she remembered with bitter remorse, 
that the impulses she had given, bore reference only to this. 
Her son had been her idol she had been proud of his 
beauty proud of his talents but no prayer had consecrat- 
ed his childhood, or sought for him amid the perils of youth, 
the protection of the Omnipotent and Ever-present Spirit. 
The self-reliance of her own proud nature had never before 
been shaken. Well did she remember the pitying smile 
with which she had turned away one evening, from the room 
of her sister-in-law, where, having entered unexpectedly, she 


had found her on her knees, with her children at ber side, 
commending them to the protection of Pleaven ere they slept. 
And now she sought to pray, but it was a cry of terror, not 
the pleading voice of a loving and trusting child, that arose 
from her heart. As a mother, she had been tried in the ba- 
lance and found wanting ; and the hand of God seemed to 
be writing her doom in the sufferings of her son. 

The haughty spirit was bent ; but lower, lower, must it 
bow, ere it can find peace at the feet of the Crucified One. 



" Let us do our work all well, 

Both the unseen and the seen, 
Make the house where gods may dwell 
Beautiful, entire, and clean." 

WEEKS have passed away, and Donald, still pale and weak 
from recent illness, though daily convalescing, is resting on 
a couch covered with a pretty chintz, and drawn up to a win- 
dow, from which he may gaze, with all that keen enjoyment, 
awakened by long enforced abstinence, upon the face of na- 
ture in one of her loveliest aspects. Around the window 
from which he looks, are clustering honeysuckles and creep- 
ing roses. Farther on, the drooping branches of that most 
graceful of trees, the elm, are swept by the morning breeze 
across his line of vision ; and beyond them, veiled, not con- 
cealed by their leafy screen, sparkle the waters of the Connecti- 
cut: not flowing on with the quiet majesty which it assumes 
as it approaches the termination of its course ; but foaming 
and brawling amid the rocks that would obstruct its pas- 
sage. Far in the east, blue hills close the view. 

The room in which Donald lies, is small and very simply 
furnished; but there is an indescribable air of refinement 
amid its simplicity, making you feel, that a woman of gen- 
tle culture has presided over its arrangements. Two en 
gravings, one of the Madonna del Sisto, the other of the 
last supper, framed in plain wood, blackened and polished to 


imitate ebony, hang upon its walls. Except these, the only 
ornaments visible are flowers, disposed in baskets woven of 
green rushes or grass, in graceful forms, by the fair hands 
which had arranged the flowers they bore. Fitting into one 
corner of the room is an etagere, formed of a highly pol- 
ished wood, whose fine grain and light color give it the ap- 
pearance of satin-wood. But Donald has learned that, like 
the pretty work-table and desk on the other side of the 
room, it is of domestic manufacture, and made of the com- 
mon pine highly varnished. The shelves of the etagere 
bear not the fashionable bijouterie commonly found on such 
articles, but books. Let us examine them, and we shall thus 
gain some acquaintance with the mind that has fed on them. 
On the highest shelf are arranged some volumes of history. 
Froissart's Chronicles is placed beside Hallam's Middle 
Ages, and these volumes are followed by Hume's England and 
Botta's America. On the next shelf the epigrammatic Ma- 
caulay, the polished Alison, the philosophic Mclntosh, and 
the caustic Jeffreys, stand side by side, flanked by Evelyn's 
Diary and Boswell's Johnson. Miss Edgeworth and Sir 
Walter Scott, have filled two shelves, and the remaining 
one is devoted to poetry. There are Shakspeare, Milton, 
Wordsworth, Coleridge, and the Childe Harold of Byron. 

But Donald is disturbed from his reverie, and we from 
our examination, by the entrance of a girl, who, though she 
has seen but twenty summers, has already exchanged the 
gayety of very early youth, for the graver expression and 
more staid manner which usually accompany matronly 

Donald's eyes, still languid from recent illness, brighten 
into a smile f as he says, " Your hour has seemed to me a very 
long one. I have been so spoiled since my illness, that I 
grow weary even of this beautiful view, without some one 
beside me to whom I may say how beautiful it is." 


" I am sorry Robert could not have remained longer with 
you to-day, but I will do my best to supply his place. Shall 
I read to you?" 

Donald playfully held back the book she would have 
taken from him as he said, " I would rather you should talk 
with me, if you please." 

" My pleasure will depend somewhat on the subject you 
choose," answered the lady, readily adopting his easy, play- 
ful tone. 

" What if I should make a recantation to you, of some 
opinions hitherto held as a part of my creed." 

" If the opinions were false, I will receive the recanta- 
tion with pleasure." 

' False they certainly were, for I believed that most of 
those who lived north of the Potomac, and all the inhabi- 
tants of the New England states, were Yankees." 

" Well, we are Yankees or descendants, at least, of 
those to whom the Indians gave the name Yenghese," said 
the lady. 

" Ah !" exclaimed Donald, " but with us of the South, 
the name has a very different meaning ; it marks not a geo- 
graphicalj or national, but a moral distinction. By Yankee 
we mean I am ashamed to tell you what we mean, now 
that I have ascertained how far it is from the truth." 

"Pray let me hear; how else can I have your recanta- 
tion. The greater were your prejudices, the higher glory will 
it be for us to have overcome them." 

"Overcome them ! How could I maintain them, having 
once known your brother." 

" Ah ! but you must beware of falling into an opposite 
error, as you assuredly will, should you take Robert as a 
type of the Yankee race." 

" He is, at least, the possibility of a Yankee." 

" And is he not also the possibility of a Southerner ?" 


" I think not. I almost fear to tell you why, lest you 
should suspect me of impertinence, where I feel most admir- 

" Do not be apprehensive. I should not easily suspect 
impertinence when Robert was the subject." She spoke 
with a proud significance. 

" You are right ; the firmness of your brother's adhe- 
rence to principle may awaken dislike, but there is nothing 
about him on which contempt could feed." 

" Thank you," she replied, while her cheeks flushed and 
her eyes grew moist with pleasure. " But why do you think 
such qualities as his impossible to a Southerner ? Surely 
you are not such a renegade as to think any thing noble 
beyond their attainment." 

She spoke jestingly, and he began to answer in the same 
tone, but grew more serious as he proceeded. 

" Certainly not ! They are all Chevalier Bayards, incog., 
but they could not, I fear, exhibit the dignity and courtesy, 
and, as I have good reason to know, the heroism of a Cheva- 
lier Bayard, in the person of may I say it ? a manufac- 
turer and mechanic." 

" Why should you hesitate to say it ? The dignity, the 
courtesy and heroism are inherent in my brother's nature 5 
the manufacturing and mechanics are adventitious circum- 
stances, which neither make nor mar that nature." 

" True; yet he must have had some affinity with these to 
have chosen them. It was a choice no Southerner would 
have made." 

" And are you Southerners always able to choose your 
own line of life ? Is it never forced on you by circum- 
stances ?" 

" A life of ignoble labor on a gentleman of education 
and refinement ? Never !" 

" Ignoble labor ? and what makes labor ignoble ? Has 


it never been companioned by high and pure thoughts ? Or 
is it this particular form of labor to which you object me- 
chancics and manufacturing ? the first the power by which 
we subdue nature to our will, the last the application of 
that power to procure comfort and wealth for thousands. 
Are these ignoble ?" 

Indignant emphasis was in her tones ; and her features, 
usually cold in their expression, quivered with excitement. 
For the first time, Donald thought her beautiful, and in ad- 
miration of the enthusiasm thus unveiled, forgot the painful 
character of the emotion he was exciting, and, without an 
apology, pursued the subject. 

" Not ignoble in their principles certainly." 

" And in their practice ?" 

" Must they not, in our present social arrangements, 
force us into degrading associations ?" 

" No ; if we are brought into such associations it must be 
by our own will, though we strive to lay our sin on that 
great modern scape-goat society. But one example is bet- 
ter than twenty arguments ; you must see Robert in his 
work amidst these degrading associations. You will find 
him occupying a position of influence, a ruler and guide to 
many, and availing himself of this position only for good. 
Around him are some who came to him untutored clods, fit- 
ted at best for expert machines, into whom he has infused 
intelligent souls, and whose aspirations he has directed 
heavenward. These are his degrading associations ; this 
his ignoble life." 

" I have displeased you, and ought to apologize ; yet I 
can scarcely say, with truth, I am sorry for that which has 
made you so eloquent." 

" Pardon me, I have been too warm," she said, recalled 
to herself by his observation ; then, after a moment's pause, 
she added, " I should have remembered that Robert himself 


once felt as you do. The greatest sacrifice of his life was 
made when he entered on his present career, but that was in 
his boyhood ; he has learned since then, and will yet teach 
the world, that a noble spirit can find its appropriate ali- 
ment and exercise in a life of labor, if the labor be under- 
taken for noble ends." 

Donald was silent. He did not quite understand the 
earnest, enthusiastic girl. She had risen above his range of 
thought. All life was with him the result of impulse, or 
necessity. Labor mechanical labor he had supposed al- 
ways the result of the last, and now he heard of its being 
" undertaken for noble ends." What ends ? 

" I fear you will think me unpardonably inquisitive, but 
iny interest in your brother tempts me to ask, what objects 
could have prompted a sacrifice which but pardon me I 
have given you pain ; your goodness had made me too bold. 
Do not answer what I should not have asked." 

"You blame yourself without reason. I should not have 
referred to these objects had I been unwilling to explain 
my reference. Besides, a knowledge of them is necessary to 
your thorough appreciation of Robert, and though there may 
be some pain in recalling them, they are so linked with my 
most endearing memories " 

She ceased abruptly, and gazed earnestly forward, as if 
fancy was picturing on the air those treasured memories. 
A movement of Donald recalled her to the present, and, 
turning her eyes upon him, she asked, " Did you notice as 
you came here, about a mile from Springfield, a large house 
of gray stone, standing on an elevation, and surrounded by 
fine old trees ? There was Robert's boyhood passed, and 
there our mother " 

Her voice faltered her lip quivered. " Do not indulge 
me at such expense to yourself, my dear Miss Grahame," cried 
Donald, " it was worse than thoughtless in me to ask it." 


" I cannot speak of her, but my father he had been 
reared in idleness and luxury in England ; his father died, 
and he found himself without the fortune required to support 
the position he held, yet with what he was told would be ac- 
counted wealth in America, and to America he came. He 
was then young, and the remainder of his life was spent 
here, yet he never became thoroughly American in feeling. 
His most dearly cherished hope was to win back wealth, and 
return to end his life where it began. Fortunes had been 
rapidly made in England by manufactures, and why should 
they not be here, he asked. He was in earnest; earnestness 
made him eloquent : he induced larger capitalists to join 
him, imported from England skilful workmen and an expe- 
rienced agent, and became the owner of the mills you have 
seen. For a time all went well, but then came disaster 
failure. He struggled courageously desperately, at last, 
for, with my mother, his hope and courage died, and there 
was left only despair and a blind contest with the destiny 
which he knew to be alike unavoidable and inexorable. 
Better for all had he despaired earlier. His sanguine na- 
ture had led him to involve others deeply in his failure, and 
he who was the very soul of honor, found that he had not 
even the heritage of an unsullied name to leave his chil- 
dren. Robert's talents had gratified my father's pride, and 
well do I remember the exultation with which, at every new 
academic or collegiate triumph gained by him, my father 
would predict that he would yet win a noble name in his 
own land, as he always called England. I think his hardest 
trial was the being compelled to withdraw Robert from col- 
lege, and to devote him to the pursuits which had wrecked 
his own fortune, peace and life. But what could he do 1 
It was only by continuing the mills in operation that his 
obligations could be met. the stigma wiped from his name, 
and his children preserved from utter pauperism. And who 


should continue them ? His own life was failing, and even 
should it continue, he had neither the vigor of mind nor 
strength of body, requisite to acquire the thorough know- 
ledge of mechanics and the practical skill necessary to one 
who would take the place of those expensive agents whom he 
could no longer remunerate." Miss Grahame paused a mo- 
ment, then added, " Poor Robert ! It was indeed a costly 
sacrifice when he laid his talents, his hopes and purposes of 
life upon the altar of filial duty. He struggled at first, but 
my mother was living then, and her gentle voice could always 
subdue his most wilful mood. At eighteen he stood alone, 
the guide and protector of others, and even on our father's 
grave he vowed that he would give himself no rest till none 
were left who had a right to revile the name he bore. He 
has been true to his vow. Has his fidelity dishonored him?" 

" Certainly not ; it has ennobled him !" 

Donald spoke earnestly, and felt as he spoke ; yet this was 
a nobility which he was contented to admire, without a dream 
of attaining. He fell into a reverie, asking himself what he 
would have done under like circumstances. The answer was 
hardly satisfactory. The only careers open to a gentleman 
who had never studied a profession were, in his opinion, those 
offered by the army or navy, and these paid but poorly. He 
could, to be sure, relinquish all superfluities wine, segars, 
horses yes, he would give them all up, and the readiness with 
which he made the resolve increased his self-esteem. These 
things cost an immensity of money, and, though time might be 
necessary before the sum saved by their sacrifice would clear 
a heavily encumbered estate, some friend would be found, 
doubtless, who would advance the money, and accept pay- 
ment by yearly instalments. This was a thing done every 
day by men under temporary embarrassment. And this 
thought brought him to the remembrance of his own embar- 
rassments, a subject which he had hitherto dismissed from 


his mind whenever it presented itself, under the plea of being 
too ill too think ; but this would hardly serve as an excuse 
even to himself now, since he was only waiting for his father 
to join him and approve his project before he should write 
to the department, asking orders for Tampa Bay, where his 
friend, Capt. Wharton, was stationed. Besides, he must 
make some arrangement about these debts before he should 
see his father again. He had easily checked all disagreea- 
ble questions since his illness, but now they could no longer 
be evaded, and he must either devise some mode of settle- 
ment before his family rejoined him, as they would proba- 
bly do some time in the next ten days, or he must reveal 
the whole to them, post-obits and all, and see them strip- 
ped and burdened for his debt. No ! this he vowed he 
would never do. The very thought made him desperate, 
and, springing from his couch with an activity which fright- 
ened Miss Grahame, who had supposed him too feeble for 
such a demonstration of feeling, he rushed to his room, that 
he might pace the floor with hurried steps and think with 
more freedom. The result of his thoughts was the follow- 
ing letter to Charles Montrose, who was in Boston, preparing 
for a voyage to the Pacific in a frigate to sail from that port. 


I was truly glad, dear Charles, to hear that you were 
in Boston, as I want to employ you in a little business with 
your cousin, Mr. Gr. Browne, who, if he cannot be seen, may 
doubtless be heard of in that city. I fear my mode of saying 
good-bye -was not altogether agreeable to Mr. Browne, and I 
am forced to confess, that neither my own memory, nor the re- 
lations obtained from others who were present, give me any 
assurance that it was not as unjust as disagreeable. I am, 
of course, ready to give Mr. Browne any kind of satisfac- 
tion he may be disposed to claim ; though, if it were only 


for the sake of his connection with you, I would prefer that 
the satisfaction should be the peaceable one of such an apol- 
ogy as is readily suggested by my illness immediately fol- 
lowing it. This last admission is, of course, made to you 
alone. I leave the affair in your hands. Act for me as you 
would desire another to act for you under the like circumstan- 
ces, and I shall be satisfied. But what you do, do quickly, as 
my relations with Mr. Browne are somewhat complicated 5 
and besides this affair, I have a little matter of money to 
arrange with himself and his friend, Mr. Richard Grahame, 
which I would gladly complete before my father has time to 
involve himself in it. This pecuniary obligation annoys me, 
and should have been cancelled immediately at any sacrifice, 
were it not that I am really, strange as it may seem, ignorant 
of its amount, and of the whereabouts of one of my credi- 
tors, Mr. Grahame. To tell you how I incurred this obliga- 
tion would require a volume, which I am not yet strong 
enough to write. Doubtless the birds of the air, which you 
and I used in our boyhood to think so uncharitably busy 
in carrying evil reports, have prepared you to learn that it 
was incurred at a gaming-table. It was my first, and will 
be my last loss there I speak confidently, because, as I 
sought the gaming-table only as a relief to sad thoughts, 
now, that hopes of which I dare not speak even to you till 
they are more assured, are dawning on me, its associations 
are remembered with any thing but pleasure. I would glad- 
ly indeed forget them altogether, but this cannot be till my 
debt to Mr. Browne and Mr. Grahame be discharged. Will 
you help me in arriving at this " consummation most devout- 
ly to be wished," remembering that all you may learn on 
the subject is strictly confidential ? 

" You may wonder that, writing as I do, from his bro- 
ther's house, I need to inquire where Mr. Richard Grahame 
is to be found ; but in truth, Charles, I cannot speak of him 


to his brother or sister. I have an idea, how obtained I 
know not, that he is regarded by them as the one great blot 
on their escutcheon ; and yet he did not seem to me a bad 
fellow. But I am weary, and must close with the assurance 
that in good or ill, I am still with the old affection, 



To this letter Donald received, with the delay of only 
one mail, the following reply : 

BOSTOX, Aug. 18 . 

You are right, dear Don., in supposing that I had heard 
something of your misadventures in Newport ; enough to 
make me very anxious about you. till a letter from Alice, 
dated a fortnight ago, relieved me from present apprehen- 
sion at least. Had it been in my power to obtain leave, I 
should have come up to see you during your illness, but 
alas, Uncle Sam's Nigs (U. S. N.) are the most despot- 
ically ruled in the country ; and the bustle of fitting out 
for our Pacific cruise, left me no moment in which I could 
have any hope of success in such an application. But now to 
reply to the business part of your letter. 

My impressions of Browne's conduct, received principal- 
ly from Alice, were such as to make me very unwilling to 
see him, and I accordingly wrote to him, on the reception of 
yours, a mere business letter, requesting to know the amount 
of your debt. The reply I received I now inclose to you. 
You will perceive from it that Browne is not quite so grace- 
less as we supposed. But what must be said of Richard 
Grahame ? No wonder that his brother and sister regard 
him as a blot on their escutcheon. Forgery under any cir- 
cumstances is vile enough, but forgery on a brother, and a 
brother who is straining every nerve to save his name from 
the lighter taint of a father's bankruptcy, 


"St. Jude to speed! 

Did ever knight so foul a deed?" 

For the sake of his unfortunate brother and sister, we must 
keep silence respecting this scoundrel's crime ; but as it would 
be impossible now for you to meet him as a friend, I think 
you had better accept Browne's offer, to be your medium of 
communication with him. 

You will see by Browne's note, that he disclaims all en- 
mity to you for your " Southern impetuosity." Though light- 
ened a shade or two in my estimation by this letter, I have no 
doubt that he is in truth quite conscious of having deserved 
what you gave him ; and that this is the cause of his lack 
of resentment. 

The only question awaiting your decision in this business, 
is whether you will give your note to this Grahame for the 
sum due to him, as Browne proposes, or whether you shall 
obtain the cash from my uncle for its payment. As my good 
uncle has probably been at great expense this summer, the 
first arrangement may be the most convenient ; and yet I 
am not sure that it will be wise in you to continue any as- 
sociation with Browne, his influence having already proved 
so injurious to you. Confidently as you assert your free- 
dom from all penchant for gaming, I think your safest course 
would be, to break every link that is even remotely connect- 
ed with it. Touch not, handle not, has been my motto in 
regard to this habit. 

I write in great haste, dear Don., on the eve of sailing. 
I am sorry I cannot complete this business for you, but the 
way is now open for you to write to Browne yourself. 

One parting word on another and more pleasing subject. 
My mother has told me of your love for Alice ; we have been 
so much as brothers and sisters together, that I never sus- 
pected this, and even plead guilty to a somewhat old-fashion- 
ed prejudice against cousinly marriages ; but so dearly do I 


regard you, and so entirely do I trust my uncle's judgment, 
that if he sanction your wish, and my mother assures me 
that he does, I shall rejoice to have a right to subscribe my- 
self what I have ever been in heart. 

Your Brother, 


Enclosed in the foregoing letter, was the following from 
Browne to Charles Montrose. 

I have just received your very dignified communication, 
and perhaps should I act selon les regies, I should mount 
stilts as high as your own ; and as neither of us would find 
it agreeable to be the first to descend, our hitherto easy and 
friendly intercourse would be at an end for ever. But as 
this course would probably cost me more than yourself I 
being by nature peculiarly ill adapted for stilts I shall not 
adopt it ; but shall rather invite you to descend and hear 
my defence? no! my complaint. And devilish good rea- 
son I have for complaint, let me tell you. Here have I, 
from pure good nature and cousinly affection not for you, 
Mr. Charles devoted myself during the greater part of a 
summer to your Southern friends, without reward or hope of 
reward, beyond your and their acknowledgment of my 
good intentions ; and behold ! I receive for my pains from 
the one party, a broken head : and from the other a let- 
ter, which, if I had not more warm blood about me than 
most people have, would have frozen me into an icicle. 
And what have I gained as an offset? but little amuse- 
ment and less profit. You will probably stare at this, 
prepared as you evidently are, to believe that I enticed your 
cousin to the gaming-table, and fleeced him when there. 
Stare you may, but you must believe me when I assure you 
that I can prove by every witness present, that it was with 


Mr. Richard Grahame, and not with me, that Lieut. Morr 
trose played those last desperate games, which left him a 
loser of several thousands. And now I come to the real 
pith of our correspondence. You wish to know the amount 
lost by Lieut. Montrose, and to make arrangements for its 
payment. This is not unexpected by me, for however I may 
have suffered by your cousin's Southern impetuosity, I have 
never doubted his honor, or supposed that a debt would be 
less binding on him because the law did not enforce its pay- 
ment. The poor devil to whom he is indebted is less confi- 
dent, perhaps because he has more at stake. He is trembling 
not merely for his dollars, but for what the most covetous 
man values yet more, his character and freedom. I may be 
wrong in revealing to you all the cause he has for apprehen- 
sion, but I have such implicit confidence in your honor, and 
that of Lieut. D. Montrose, that I am assured what I say 
will never be used to the injury of Mr. R. Grahame ; and I 
know not how I can so well serve him, as by showing you the 
motives which impelled him to avail himself of your cou- 
sin's most opportune fancy for play, and which now make 
immediate payment of the money so won, of the utmost im- 
portance to him. 

You are perhaps aware Lieut. Montrose is. I know 
that the father of Richard Grahame died a ruined man, and 
that Robert against all advice, assumed his debts, stipulating 
only for time in which to pay them, and for the liberty of 
selecting those whose claims should first be satisfied. My 
father was a creditor to a large amount, and those more 
needy having been paid, Mr. Robert Grahame intrusted to 
Richard a considerable sum to be conveyed to us. He ar- 
rived in Boston too late to make the payment on the same 
day the night brought temptation the morning vain though 
bitter repentance. He was nearly frantic, and pitying, yet 
unable to help him, I made a suggestion, prompted I verily 


believe by Satan, that he should raise the money by getting 
a note discounted. He seized on the idea. He hoped thus 
to obtain some months time ; in the interval fortune might 
favor him, and he could then redeem the note, and all would 
be well. But one difficulty presented itself his name was 
worth nothing in the market ; his brother's, however, was of 
more value. I cannot speak more plainly for fear of conse- 
quences. He obtained the money his debt was paid but 
a burden was laid upon his soul heavier than that of an un- 
cancelled debt. I am sure I need say no more. You will 
understand his thirst for money his determination to obtain 
it at all hazards. Every day that this note remains in the 
hands of a broker, he is in danger of exposure which will 
bring shame on his family as well as ruin on him. The 
least variation in the money-market may cause some transfer 
leading to detection. He may deserve to suffer, but I am 
not immaculate, and cannot refuse him my pity. Still more 
do I pity nay, I tremble for his brother and sister, who are 
high-souled and delicately susceptible to the least shadow of 

I have dwelt on this subject, that you, and through you 
your cousin, may know how important a consideration time 
is to Mr. Richard Grahame. As Lieut. Montrose is not 
known in the money-market here, he may not find it easy to 
command at once so large a sum as the amount of his debt, 
and the fifteen or twenty days necessary to draw from his 
factor in Savannah might be ruinous to poor Grahame. But 
I have an arrangement to propose, which will I hope suit all 
parties. I am a poor devil myself, but through my father 
my name has some market value, and my note will be read- 
ily taken in exchange even for Robert Grahame's. My en- 
dorsement will of course be equally valuable, and if Lieut. 
Montrose will give Richard Grahame his note for the sum 
due, I will endorse it, and will promise to stave off all calls 
upon him for six or even for twelve months, if he desires it. 


Will you explain this affair to your cousin, and present 
my proposition to him. If he thinks a broken head a suffi- 
cient recompense for a foolish jest, which, I believe, was the 
sum of my offence against him, and will write me frankly 
on this subject, he will find me ready to meet his views. 
Whatever he does however, if intended kindly, must be done 
quickly I am interrupted, and conclude by signing myself 
in spite of your repelling dignity, 

Yours as ever, 


P. S. My interruption was from poor Dick Grahame. 
He was in unspeakable agitation, having just seen the holder 
of his note, and fancied from some observation made by him 
that he began to " smell a rat." Pray lose not a moment's 
time in giving Lieut. D. Montrose the information I have 
given you. His generous Southern nature will, I am sure, 
prompt him to make some effort to save from disgrace the 
family of this man, who have, I believe, shown kindness to 

This letter, with that in which it was enclosed, reached 
Donald while he was enjoying the kindness and hospitality 
of those whose interests were most deeply involved in its 
communications. He had been listening to the brother's 
praises from the sister's lips. He remembered how her 
cheek had flushed as she spoke of her father's bankruptcy, 
how proudly she had dwelt on her brother's sacrifice of all 
to honor. He knew that this sacrifice had left them nothing 
but an honest name. His heart beat fast, his breath came 
quick, his hand trembled as he thought that, even while he 
read, this might be lost ; and Richard Grahame himself could 
scarcely have felt more anxiety to secure them from such a 
result. To wait the slow forms of business for this, would be 
treason. Were his father here, he w.ould for such an object 
find courage to tell him all ; but he could not wait his com- 


ing, and since the proposal of a gradual liquidation of his 
debt, which he had designed at the commencement of this 
correspondence to make to Richard G-rahame, was now out 
of the question, nothing seemed to remain for him but to ac- 
cept the proposal of Browne. Whether he should communi- 
cate the whole affair to his father, immediately on his arrival, 
or reserve the disclosure for a more convenient season, would 
be a subject for after thought. Having arrived at this de- 
cision in a shorter time than it has taken us to record his 
thoughts, he drew his desk to him and wrote as follows : 

SPRINGFIELD, Aug. 18th. 

SIR: Your letter of the 12th inst. to Lieut. C. Mon- 
trose, U. S. N., lies before me. Its contents are of very 
deep and painful interest to me, for the sake of the kind 
friends whom they so nearly concern, and I therefore make 
not a moment's delay in writing you in relation to them. 
Before entering on this subject, however, I feel that an apol- 
ogy is due to you for an act which I deeply regret, and 
which I am persuaded only the delirium of fever could have 
prompted. It is an act which I hope you will forget, as I 
heartily wish I could. 

I thank you for having given me the opportunity, by the 
letter before me, to make some'return to my friends here for 
obligations I can never wholly cancel. I am impatient to 
place in your hands the means of preventing an exposure, 
which would be to them so great an evil, yet the absence of 
my father would have made it impossible for ine to act with 
the necessary promptitude, but for your kind offer to arrange 
the business for me. I accordingly enclose you my note for 

. I was about to state the sum, but find, on reference 

to your letter, that you have not mentioned it. I find it im- 
possible, from my own confused memories, to fix the exact 
amount, and. as the two days necessary to obtain farther infor- 


mation from you might prove destruction to our design, I 
enclose my note, leaving a blank space, which you will oblige 
me by filling up with a sum sufficient to cancel Mr. Richard 
Grahanie's debt, and thus to ward off the threatened evil here, 
even though it should somewhat exceed my losses. 

Time is too precious to permit me to add more than that 
I shall ever hold myself your debtor for what I may truly 
call your magnanimity in this affair. I hope to see you in 
Boston before I return South, and will then arrange with 
you the modes and times of the payments to be made to you. 
Till then, accept assurances of the highest respect from, 

Yours, very truly, 


The next morning Greorge Browne might have been seen 
hurraing through the streets of Boston, from the post-office 
to his own lodgings. Having arrived at his room, he locked 
the door, and then, withdrawing a letter from his pocket, he 
broke the seal and glanced rapidly over its contents. 

" By Jove !" he exclaimed, ''this is better than I hoped," 
while his eyes kindled with a fire that was not all pleasure. 

He was engaged in a second and slower perusal of the 
letter, when there was a rap at the door, and, opening it, he 
admitted Richard Grahame, who, in a voice and with a man- 
ner betraying some agitation, 1 asked, "Have you heard from 
him ? 

" Yes, his father is absent, and he etfnnot therefore pay 
the money at once, he says ; but he sends me his note, on 
which I may perhaps raise the money." 

" For what amount has he given his note ? It is made 
payable to me^ I suppose ?" *- 

" I-t is. and if you can pay this other," opening his pock- 
et-book and touching a paper in it, " I will give it to you ; 
if not, I will keep it as security, and when it is paid, if that 
be ever done, will give you the surplus hundreds." 


" Then give me my own note, the existence of which it 
maddens me to remember." 

" Excuse me not till I receive in exchange something 
more valid than the I. 0. U. of this sprig of Southern chiv- 
alry and aristocracy." 

" This is too much, sir," cried the excited Grahame, ris- 
ing as he spoke. " You have no claim on that note of 
Lieut. Montrose, except in payment of the debt for which 
the other was given, and to keep both is a fraud which I 
will not bear. I will take legal measures." 

" Do so, and the good people of Boston will be enter- 
tained with a criminal case, the termination of which may 
be to find you a residence at the expense of the govern- 

The blood purpled the forehead of Richard Grahame. 
He could scarcely refrain from rushing upon the tormentor, 
who sat calmly observing the rage he had excited. 

"This quarrel between us is very foolish, Grahame," 
said Browne, at length ; " I have no unfriendly meaning to 
you, but you really cannot wonder that I have some hesita- 
tion in parting with a paper which is worth five thousand 
dollars to me " 

Grahame interrupted him in a voice whose deep, un- 
earthly tone proceeded from lips of ghastly whiteness : " I 
swear by all I value on earth and all I fear beyond it, that 
you shall never gain one dollar by that paper sooner will I 
confess my crime and bear its consequences." 

" A thing easily said," sneered Browne ; " but I will tell 
you what is more easily done. Endorse this note, making it 
payable to me, and enclose it in such a note as I shall dic- 
tate, and I will give you the other." 

" Give me pen, ink and paper, and dictate your note," 
said Grahame. 

Browne placed these articles on the table, and, drawing 
a chair opposite to Grahame, he commenced his dictation. 


" It is necessary to be civil on such occasions, so begin, 
1 Dear Browne.' " 

Without a change of countenance, his victim wrote. 

Browne continued, " ' I have just received a note for 
twenty thousand dollars' " " twenty thousand !" exclaimed 
Grahame, looking up in surprise, "it is scarcely one-fourth 
of that sum." 

" Well ! suppose I choose to call it one hundred ; will 
that make it so ? I can only recover at last the amount of 
the note, which your letter can neither increase nor decrease." 

" I will not write a lie," said Richard Grahame, laying 
down his pen. 

A sneer was on Browne's lip, but, as he looked in the 
colorless face opposite to him, he saw that a strange fixed- 
ness, the resolution of despair, had taken the place of its 
usual mobility of feature and expression, and he changed 
his tone to one of confiding friendliness. 

" To be frank with you, Grahame," he said, " I am en- 
gaged at present in an affair which makes it very desirable 
to me to be able to exhibit some proof that I shall one day 
be master of such a sum ; that is all I want your letter for, 
and, as I do not believe in the old proverb, l a bird in the 
hand is worth two in the bush,' I am willing, for the possible 
advantage I may derive from this, to exchange a note which 
is as good as if issued by a bank, for one of doubtful value." 

Ci But suppose I should be examined on this claim one of 
these days ?" 

" Have I not already told you that I can have no claim 
except for the amount of the note ? a fact which, I should 
think, would be sufficiently plain without any showing of 
mine : however, do as you please. This paper is perhaps 
better for me." 

" I will write," and, bending himself to his task, Richard 
Grahame did not again look up till he had written the fol- 
lowing lines, at the dictation of Browne. g 


" I have just received a note for twenty thousand dollars 
from Lieut. Donald Montrose, U. S. A., if you will accept 
it in payment of my debt to you, I will endorse it to you. 
Let me hear from you immediately. 

Yours, &c., 

" Here are envelopes, wax and taper," said Browne, put- 
ting them on the table as he spoke. " But stay ; your sig- 
net, if you please, on "the seal; and now your endorsement 
on this slip of paper," putting the note on its face before 

Richard Grahame wrote his name ; then, still keeping 
his hand on the note, said, " I have fulfilled your conditions ; 
now give me the other." 

"Certainly; here it is." 

The notes were exchanged, and, tearing the name from 
that which he received, and severing it letter from letter, 
Grahame walked to a window and threw out the minute 
pieces, to be wafted hither and thither on a gentle summer 
breeze ; then, turning with flashing eyes to Browne, he ex- 
claimed, " Thank heaven ! I am free once more, and may 
tell you, as I have often longed to do, that I despise and de- 
test you as the basest of scoundrels." 

" A very unwise confession," said Browne, coolly ; " let 
me advise you, if you would circumvent a scoundrel, never 
betray your suspicions of him." 

With an impatient gesture, Richard Grahame flung open 
the door, and commenced a rapid descent of the stairs, but 
had not proceeded far when Browne called after him to know 
if he had not left his cane. This coolness redoubled his ire, 
and, snatching the cane politely extended to him, he rushed 
from the house, feeling that an instant's delay would render 
the temptation irresistible to use it on the person of his 



" Let us lift the curtain, and observe 
What passes ! that chamber." 

IN the same city, and within a few doors of the very house 
in which Browne was maturing projects whereby he hoped 
to gratify at once his avarice and his revenge, Mrs. Charles 
Montrose and our gentle Alice were awaiting the arrival of 
Col. and Mrs. Montrose and Isabelle, with whom they were 
to pass a few days at Springfield, that they might become 
acquainted with Donald's kind friends in that neighborhood, 
after which they were to proceed southward. It was the in- 
tention of Col. Montrose to return home by land ; stopping 
for a few days at Philadelphia. Baltimore, Washington, and 
Richmond, and, as this was before the era of railways, such 
a journey would occupy several weeks. As it was now late in 
September, and the Colonel was desirous to be at home early 
in November, they could not long delay their departure. 

Mrs. Charles Montrose and Alice had passed a fortnight 
in Boston, the last fortnight before the sailing of Charles 
on a long and distant cruise. Alice had seemed to suffer more 
now than at her first parting with her brother, and yet no 
stormy burst of weeping marked now as then her last adieu, 
but, for many days before, her face wore a saddened expres- 


sion, her movements were languid, and her mother or 
brother, entering her room unexpectedly, had more than 
once surprised her, with her books or work resting on her 
lap, and tears stealing slowly down her cheeks. On one of 
these occasions, Charles, fearing that these tears were indica- 
tions of some secret cause of sorrow, had sought to win her con- 
fidence by the tenderest assurances of sympathy and affection. 

" My darling Ally," he said, as seating himself beside 
her he pillowed her head upon his shoulder, and kissed her 
cheek " tell me what is the matter with you." 

" Nothing I was only thinking how lonely Mamma and 
I would be when you were gone," she murmured. 

" Is that really all, Ally? Do* not turn your eyes away 
look at me, and answer me truly, as you would answer our 
father if he were living. I cannot leave you with a doubt 
of your happiness upon my mind : I always loved my little 
Ally dearly, and always will ; and now tell me, darling, have 
you promised, as my mother tells me, to marry Donald after 
this year of probation which my uncle has imposed on him ?'' 

The only answer of Alice was to hide her face on the 
shoulder against which she leaned. 

" You do not answer me, Alice ; must I go away, feeling 
that I have lost my sister's confidence ?" 

Alice could not resist the grieved tone in which this was 
said, and putting her little hand in his, she whispered, " I 
promised my uncle to do as he wished." 

" But it is your wish, not my uncle's, that should deter- 
mine this, Alice. Tell me, my sister, do you wish to marry 
Donald ? do you love him ? Answer me, Alice : remem- 
ber we are soon to be parted, and Heaven only knows how 
and when we shall meet again." 

" I would tell you if I could, Charles, but I don't know." 
The low voice ceased. 

" Only tell me if you love him, dear Alice." 


" I always loved Donald, almost as well as I loved you, 

" But do you love him better ? do you wish to marry 
him, Alice?" 

" I would rather not marry any one ; but if I do, I sup- 
pose I think I mean if Donald wishes it " again she 

left her sentence unfinished. 

" You would say that you would prefer Donald to any 

" I suppose so." 

" I am glad to hear it, my darling," said Charles, kissing 
her, and smiling to think by what circumlocutions and tor- 
tuosities one must arrive at any knowledge of a woman's 
heart. " Donald is a noble fellow in spite of his peccadillos 
this summer ; and though I do not in general approve of 
cousinly marriages, if you really love him, I have no doubt 
yours will be very happy." 

These were pleasant words, and yet, strange to say, Alice 
felt more saddened than soothed by them. 

The house in which Charles had obtained rooms for his 
mother, his sister, and himself, was very pleasantly situated, 
looking on one side upon the Mall, and on the other upon 
the long-disused cemetery of a neighboring church, in which 
no indication remained of its original use, except here 
and there a broken and moss-covered stone, above which 
trees planted by mourners, who had themselves long since 
gone down the grave, threw their widely sheltering arms. 
Upon this shady and secluded spot the windows of the room 
occupied by Alice looked, and one night it was that which 
followed the departure of Charles she lay long gazing upon 
the fantastic shadows thrown by those old trees, as their 
branches were slowly waved by a gentle breeze, beneath the 
light of a brilliant moon now at the full. Alice lay very 
still, lest she should arouse her mother, who occupied another 


bed in the same room, and whom she supposed to be sleep- 
ing. Thus she lay " chewing the cud of sweet and bitter 
fancies," till she had heard a distant clock toll forth the 
midnight hour, then, sleep began to interweave its own 
wild visions with her waking thoughts. She dreamed, and 
still she saw the old church-yard and its waving trees light- 
ed by the solemn moon. She was walking there with Don- 
ald, or some one whom she believed to be Donald, but he did 
not speak to her. and a cloud came over the moon so that she 
could not see him, and at length a doubt a fear took pos- 
session of her ; and she implored him to speak to her, by the 
memory of their childhood, by the love he had so lately 
vowed to her ; she prayed for one word ; and as his continued 
silence made the doubt conviction, and the fear an over- 
powering terror, she would have snatched her hand from 
him, but he grasped it more tightly than ever, and drew her 
along with frightful rapidity, though she was stumbling over 
graves at almost every step she strove to cry out, and 
woke to feel her mother's soft hand on hers, and to see her 
in the moonlight bending over her. 

" What is the matter, my child ?" asked Mrs. Montrose J 
" you seemed very much distressed in your sleep." 

" Oh mother ! I am so glad that you woke me I have 
had such a frightful dream about Donald." 

" Ah !" thought the mother, " so it is with young hearts, 
the one thought ever present, waking and sleeping ; Charles 
need not have feared that Alice did not love her cousin." 

And having soothed Alice with gentle and endearing words, 
and re-arranged her pillows, and closed the window lest the 
night air should be too cool for her, Mrs. Montrose went 
back to her bed with pleasant anticipations of her daughter's 
future, and slept. And soon Alice too slept again, and with 
sleep the dream came back, but less vividly, shifting and 
changing, like those nickering lights and shadows which she 



had watched so long. She had slept as she afterwards found 
but two hours, when, dreaming still of Donald and the old 
grave-yard, she thought that she had fallen into an open grave, 
and that he was shovelling the earth upon her ; it was on her 
chest, a mountain-weight, oppressive, stifling she strove, as 
only those can strive who strive for life, to throw it off, and 
in vain ; yet she was not hopeless, for a voice whose very 
tone awakened confidence, bade her " be of good courage ;" and 
as she looked in the direction whence it came, she saw one in 
whose aspect strength and gentlness, pity and power seemed 
blended, as she fancied they must be in an angel ; and saying to 
herself, "It is my guardian angel," she stretched out her arms 
to him. and awoke. But was she indeed awake, or was it 
but a change in her dream ? She lay indeed upon her bed, 
she was in no grave, but the same stifling sensation was on 
her chest, and the moonbeams seemed to shine as through 
a vapory haze into the room. A cry met her ear. it seemed 
the echo of that which she had striven to make ; and then 
the voice, the very words of which she had dreamed, 
" Courage, madam ! only rouse yourself, be quick, and do 
not fear." 

Alice raised herself on her arm, and in the dim light she 
saw her mother standing, but she scarcely looked at her, for 
nearer the window, with the moonbeams falling directly upon 
him. and making every feature visible, though seen as it 
were through a veil, was the very being whom she had 
greeted in her dream as her guardian angel. Before she 
could do more than feel the strangeness of such a visitant 
at such an hour, sounds forced themselves on her attention, 
which explained all the crackling of flames, the hoarse shouts 
of the firemen as they arrived and took their stations in the 
street in front of the house, and the noise of the engine pumps 
which were already at work. All that we have described 
had passed so rapidly with Alice, that the words we have re- 


corded as addressed to her mother were scarce concluded when 
with a cry of terror she sprang to her feet, and fully aware 
of her danger, and forgetful of all else, was in an instant 
standing beside her mother, and before the stranger. In 
her restlessness, her cap had fallen off, and her hair fell in 
disordered curls around her pallid face, and over the white 
wrapper in which she had slept. That moment of fear was 
not a time for speech. 

" My mother !" " My darling !" and that clasp which 
said for each, " we live or die together " that was all be- 
tween the mother and child. 

" Do not despair there is good hope for us yet," said 
their companion ; and Alice, under the vivid impression 
of her dream, felt that the very tones of his voice brought 
strength and courage. She watched his movements, and' 
obeyed his slightest suggestion, with the ready and unques- 
tioning confidence of a little child ; while he, on his part, for 
the sake of these weak, trembling women, evinced a compo- 
sure and hopefulness he was far from feeling. To Mrs. 
Montrose alone, there was neither hope nor courage. She 
stood with hands clasped, her pale lips moving as in prayer, 
insensible to all but her danger and her child's presence. 

" Dearest mother, we shall be saved ; this kind gentleman 
says so," urged Alice. 

A look of agony a quicker movement of the lips, was the 
only answer from her mother ; for, alas ! she had seen what 
had taken from her all hope, except that which lights the 
world beyond the grave. When roused, like Alice, though 
from sounder sleep, by the voice of a stranger in her room, 
in her confusion she had opened the door into the front room, 
hitherto used as a parlor by Alice and herself; and a scene 
had presented itself, at which the hearts of brave men have 
often quailed. For through thick smoke smoke which was 
now filling their chamber which even then made it impossi- 


ble to breathe in the outer room, the red, fierce flames from 
the lower part of the house rose leaping, as if eager to de- 
vour their prey, to the very windows of the third story, 
where she and Alice were, as she supposed, the only sleepers, 
and where, as she quickly divined, they had been left with- 
out even a warning, by those who occupied the lower rooms, 
and to whom the imminence of the danger had made self- 
preservation the one thought. Mrs. Montrose found, how- 
ever, when driven back into her chamber by the smoke, that 
they had an unexpected companion, in what she considered 
their certain destruction, A gentleman arriving late in the 
evening before, had been put into the room which Charles 
had occupied, and which opened by one door into hers, and 
by another upon the hall, just at the head of the stairs. 
The stranger had been aroused from sleep by the cry of fire, 
and even while throwing on his clothing, had endeavored to 
awake those who slept near him ; but receiving no answer, he 
entered the room by the door which a careless attendant had 
left unlocked, in time to see the horrors exposed by the open 
doorway, in which Mrs. Montrose was standing. It was 
doubtless the stifling sensation produoed by the smoke thus 
admitted which had caused the last dream of Alice ; and 
the figure, and voice, and words, which had seemed a part of 
that dream, were a reality apprehended by senses but half 

" I must leave you a moment to see what can be done," 
said the guardian angel, as he still seemed to the trusting 
Alice. J: If I can get to the front of the house, all will yet 
be well ; in the mean time, have you woollen clothing ? it would 
be safer than these light dresses." 

He went, and Alice, quick to understand and to obey, 
threw over the cambric gowns worn by her mother and her- 
self, wrappers of some woollen fabric, which the cold air of 
Newport had compelled them to prepare even in the midst 


of summer ; then she found their shoes and stockings, and 
placing her mother, who seemed to move with as little con- 
sciousness as an automaton, in a chair, she put on hers, and 
afterwards drew on her own. With her rapid though trem- 
bling movements, this had scarcely occupied three minutes 5 
yet the time seemed long, and as the sounds grew louder of 
falling timbers and crackling flames, and their protector 
came not, her heart sank ; and growing impatient, she open- 
ed the door into his room. At that moment he was enter- 
ing it from the hall, and by the lurid light of the burning 
stairs, she saw the desolation, the horrors beyond ; and as 
he came nearer, she saw that one sleeve of his coat was burn- 
ed. Deeper suffering on his part she did not then perceive. 

It was strange, but his presence brought more of quiet 
and assurance with it, than that terrible view had given her 
of fear. 

" This way," he said, and hurrying her to the window in 
the rear of the small room in which they stood, he made 
her look out with him, and pointing far below to a flat roof 
rising to a level with the second story, which covered a piaz- 
za extending along a row of houses, of which theirs was one, 
he added ; " there is our safety ! Have you courage to let 
me lower you from this window to that place ?" 

Courage ! Poor Alice ! she was timid as a fawn, but 
she was also as confiding, and she answered, even while she 
closed her eyes, lest she should grow dizzy at the depth, " I 
will do whatever you wish, but you will save my mother !" 

" Save my child," murmured a feeble voice beside them, 
" and I will pray God to bless you !" 

' ; I will save you both, or die with you !" vowed the brave 
heart of their companion, but he paused not for speech. 
Rushing into their apartment, he drew the sheets and blankets 
from their beds, and knotted them firmly together, and bear- 
ing the feather-beds to the window of his own room, threw 


them to the roof below. The sheets and blankets which he 
had joined, he then tied to the broad and strong mahogany 
head-board of his bedstead, which he drew close to the win- 
dow, and dropping them outside, found that they would 
reach within two feet of the roof below. 

" Now,"- said he to Alice, " are you ready ? you must go 
first. Can you trust yourself to hold on firmly, till you 
reach the place of safety ?" 

" I will do it, but my mother " 

" Trust her to me ; be firm and quick, and all will be 

" Can you not put her in safety first ?" 

" No ; she is not sufficiently herself to be trusted alone ; 
you must be there to receive and cheer her." 

' I am ready what must I do ?" 

'' Only hold on tightly remember your life depends on 
it. Stay," he added, as he felt how cold and tremulous were 
the soft white hands that grasped the sheet, " I had bet- 
ter secure it around your waist ; then hold firmly here 
that is right, now courage !" 

Taking a strong hold himself of the sheet just above her 
head, that he might be able to prevent its running out too 
rapidly, he lifted her through the window in his powerful 
arms, as easily as she could have raised an infant. For an 
instant she clung to him, throwing her arm around his neck 
in the unconsciousness of terror ; and touched by her trust, 
he involuntarily clasped her, as he might have done a timid 
child, closer to him, even while whispering, " For your mo- 
ther's sake, courage !" 

She released him instantly, and leaning far out that he 
might prevent her being endangered by striking against the 
house, he suffered the sheets and blankets to run slowly 
through his hands, till he saw her touch the roof. Quickly 
she unbound them from her waist, and he drew them back 


Mrs. Montrose had watched their proceedings without a 
word. Only as he was about to lift Alice in his arms she 
pressed forward and kissed her ; but when now he said " your 
daughter is safe" when he made her look out. and Alice 
herself in a cheering tone cried, " Come, dear mother ! 
it is quite easy," she burst into tears ; and catching the hand 
of her child's preserver, pressed it to her lips, and yielded 
herself as implicitly as Alice herself had done, to his direc- 
tions. She too descended safely, and then they prayed their 
deliverer to come quickly, but though the air grew more hot 
and stifling every moment, he thought he would still be 
safe for a few minutes ; and those minutes he employed 
in lowering their trunks and his own. His own descent 
was more perilous than theirs, both because of his greater 
weight, and because there was none to give him the guid- 
ance which he had given them. It was accomplished in 
safety, however ; and beneath the stars that night, there 
went up no more earnest thanksgiving, than arose from the 
hearts of those three as they stood in the free air, delivered 
from that most appalling doom a death by fire. 

The burning cinders, which had hitherto been borne in 
the opposite direction, the current of air caused by the heat 
now began to bring towards them. They were hurried on 
therefore by their protector, who, laying the trunks upon a 
blanket, drew them along with him. They passed thus sev- 
eral houses, the sashes of which were securely fastened 
down ; but at length, finding an open window, though the 
room into which it looked was quite deserted, they entered, 
and leaving their trunks there, descended the stairs, meeting 
no one on the way. In one of the parlors, to which a bril- 
liant light attracted them, they found a man-servant asleep, 
who. when he had been aroused, and had recovered from the 
surprise and terror caused by their appearance, informed 
them that the family had all left the house, believing it 


must be burned ; but that the people from the insurance of- 
fice thought it quite safe ; and had therefore forbidden any 
thing to be removed. While he was speaking, Alice was 
standing in such a position, that the light fell directly on 
her face, and even through the disguise, of a costume more 
bizarre than becoming, Robert Grahame, for it was he who 
had been brought so providentially to their rescue, recog- 
nized her whose gentle beauty had so attracted him in his 
visit to Col. Montrose at Newport. Mutual explanations fol- 
lowed. A carriage being obtained by the aid of the servant, 
who also supplied the ladies with cloaks and shawls, they 
proceeded to a hotel together. It was already day, yet 
Mrs. Montrose and Alice retired to bed to repair their ex- 
hausted strength. To their protector no such indulgence 
was possible. The business which had brought him to the 
city could not be delayed, and by the time his burned arm 
for it was badly burned, though his companions in danger 
did not know it could be dressed, his burned coat replaced by 
another, and his toilet made, business hours would have begun. 
Therefore while Alice slept, and Mrs. Montrose, with nerves 
still too much disquieted for sleep, lay beside her, alternate- 
ly gazing on her rescued treasure, and lifting her heart in 
grateful adoration to the Heaven from which she acknow- 
ledged every good to proceed, and in prayer for blessings on 
him who had been the instrument of Heaven's mercy, Robert 
Grahame was immersed in the cares and perplexities of the 
passing hour, though even into " this sea of troubles," he 
carried with him the memory of the Ever Present. A true, 
earnest soul can never stand face to face with death, without 
bringing away some token of his power ; and wherever Rob- 
ert Grahame was, or however engaged, this day, a perpe 
tual hymn of thanksgiving seemed ascending from his heart, 
which, unconsciously to himself, like the key-note in a piece 
of music, was shaping all his life into harmony with it. His 


spirit had ever been " touched to fine issues." His past 
life had been no light barcarole or sentimental lay, but rather 
a grand battle-piece. This day, all earthly trials had shrunk 
into such insignificance, that it seemed as if the victory had 
already come, and there went up from his soul no exulting 
shout, but the solemn " TE DEUM " of a Christian conqueror. 

Amid these high and sacred emotions, there came some- 
times a thrill of more earthly feeling. This was associated 
with the occasional recurrence to his mind, of the moment 
in which Alice had clung to him, in her innocence and help- 
lessness, as to her only earthly stay. It is so sweet to 
the brave and noble to protect the weak. He called on the 
ladies by appointment, in the evening. Alice placed in his, 
a hand tremulous with the emotion which was painted on 
her glowing cheek, and betrayed by the tears which her 
drooping lids vainly sought to conceal. Mrs. Montrose 
strove to speak of their obligations, but the events of the 
last night were too recent, the feelings they excited too deep 
for speech. He turned from them to talk of Donald, and 
of his improved health, and restored vivacity. 

" Both my sister and I," he said, " were very sorry to 
part with him ; his visit threw a pleasant sparkle over the 
quiet stream of our lives." 

" He is now with his father in New- York, but you will 
probably see him again next week, as my brother, Col. Mon- 
trose, writes me that they shall all remain a few days in 
Springfield, for the pleasure of visiting Miss Grahame and 
yourself. He proposes that Alice and I shall join them 
there, offering to come on here himself and escort us back." 

" If I did not fear you would think me too bold, I would 
ask if your engagements here are such as to make it neces- 
sary for you to wait till Col. Montrose arrives at Springfield, 
before going there yourselves?" 

" Certainly not ; our engagements here were at an end 


when my son sailed ; and as my brother, Mr. Browne, is ab- 
sent with his family, we have no inducement to remain." 

" Then may I not hope to persuade you to go to Spring- 
field, and await the arrival of your friends there ? It would 
give my sister so much pleasure to make your acquaintance, 
and, pardon a brother's partiality if I say, I hope the plea- 
sure would be mutual." 

" I am sure it would ; and we should be delighted to go, 
but we are so little accustomed to travel alone." 

" I should be but too much gratified, if you would per- 
mit me to attend you." 

" That would be very pleasant but, may I ask, when 
do you return ? I could not consent to interfere with your 

" Unfortunately for me, my business is so imperative an 
affair, that I cannot postpone its claims for any pleasure 
however tempting it compels my return the day after to- 
morrow. May I hope that the time will suit you ?" 

" Can we be ready, Alice, do you think?" 

" Oh yes, mamma !" 

" I thank you for that ready acquiescence," said Mr. 
Grahame with a smile, to Alice ; '' I hardly hoped for it." 

" And why not ?" she asked. 

" For a reason which I begin to think was very unreason- 

" And that was" 

" Remember, if you please, I abjure even while I confess 
it ; it was the belief that ladies in general, and Southern la- 
dies in particular, were slow to decide, and slower to act on 
their decisions." 

" I must leave the ladies in general to your sister, but 
for Southern ladies in particular why did you form such an 
opinion of them?" inquired Alice, adopting insensibly his 
own easy manner. 


h I supposed that the climate and their peculiar modes of 
life would tend to create indolence." 

" Mamma, you are a Northern woman, and have lived 
nearly eleven years at the South, you ought to be able to 
decide the question ; are we very indolent there more in- 
dolent than Northern women ?" 

" No, my love ;" then addressing Mr. Grahame. Mrs. 
Montrose continued, " I was greatly surprised when I first 
went South, to find that women there, though their employ- 
ments might require less physical activity, were by no means 
less constantly employed ; I found that my sister-in-law, Mrs. 
Col. Montrose, was a very early riser ; that she superintended 
the arrangements of her own dairy, was her own housekeep- 
er, visited,, and often prescribed for the sick on her planta- 
tion, and with the aid of seamstresses trained and directed by 
herself, did the needlework of her family." 

" But this is a single instance." 

" Yet characteristic of a class, not of course without ex- 
ceptions. But these are not sufficiently numerous to justify 
the general belief at the North of Southern indolence." 

" Then that belief will soon cease to be general ; steam- 
boats are bringing us into so much more frequent communi- 
cation, that Maine and Georgia will soon be near neighbors, 
I am thinking ; and better acquaintance will, I hope, oblite- 
rate many a long-cherished prejudice on either side." 

The ladies were ready on the appointed day. A journey 
from Boston to Springfield, one hundred miles, was not then 
as now performed in a few hours, but as the road was excel- 
lent, the stage-coach comfortable, the scenery through which 
they passed varied and pleasing, and Mr. Grahame an ex- 
cellent travelling companion, conversible without loquacity, 
attentive without being obtrusive, acquainted with every 
mile of the road, and with every legend or historical trait 
which could give interest to the places through which they 


passed, Alice, at least, would not have exchanged their easy 
journeying for railroad speed. They spent the first night in 
the pleasant town of Worcester, and arrived in Springfield 
the next day at noon. Having seen them comfortably ac- 
commodated at a hotel, Mr. Grahame left them ; but only 
for an hour, when he returned with his sister, to urge their 
removing from the hotel to Flowerdale, as the cottage home 
of the Grahames was called. The invitation was so heartily 
given that it was impossible to decline it. 

Between Alice Montrose and Mary Grahame there were 
great dissimilarities dissimilarities visible to the most 
casual observer. Alice, sensitive and impressible, was timid 
in the expression of her feelings, and yet more of her opin- 
ions. Life had dealt so gently with her that she was still 
unconscious as a child of its evil, while the world of nature, 
and the men and women who inhabited it, were alike clothed 
with rainbow hues by her fervid imagination. Early forced 
into contact with painful realities, Mary Grahame had ac- 
quired decision, not only of mind, but of manner, and the 
human depravity which was to Alice an abstraction, accepted 
in her creed, but disbelieved every where else, was to her a 
living fact, saddening, though not hardening her heart. 
Mary Grahame was, in the fullest sense of the word, a Chris- 
tian. If to recognize his obligations to Him who had 
bought him by the sacrifice of Himself, if, under the recog- 
nition of this bond, to make DUTY the law of his life was 
to be a Christian, then might Robert Grahame claim that 
name, but there was one thing lacking ; he could labor for 
his fellow-men, but he could not love them. From his own 
loftier and purer sphere, he looked with contempt upon their 
weaknesses, and, except in some such case as that of Donald 
Montrose, where the duty he acknowledged as supreme over 
his actions demanded his interference, rarely interested him- 
self in their affairs. Pride, the sin of the archangel fallen, 


was his, and reigned perhaps all the more despotically in 
his heart for having been so crushed in his outer life. But 
Mary Grahame had made that last attainment which he 
lacked. Of her, as of Abou Ben Adhem, the recording 
angel might write as of " one that loved her fellow-men." 
She knew them selfish and debased, but she knew, too, that 
she inherited the same nature, and that, through the same 
divine principle which had made her to differ, they might 
become pure and holy as the angels in heaven. And to aid 
in this great work of the world's purification, she considered 
as at once her highest duty and most blessed privilege. 
While Alice was still a child, yielding with scarce a thought 
to the sweet affections and generous impulses of her nature, 
reflecting on all around her the almost unclouded brightness 
of her own life, Mary Grahame, disciplined, by adversity 
had become 

u A perfect woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort and command." 

Yet between those two dissimilar beings there was enough 
of sympathy to form the basis of a true and lifelong friend- 
ship. And, during this visit, they felt of how much use 
they could be to each other Alice felt so strong with 
Mary's judgment to rest upon, and Mary was so lifted out of 
the dull realities of life by the ardent and imaginative Alice. 
It was one of the chief pleasures of Alice to follow her 
friend from province to province of her simple menage ; to 
see how. by neatness, industry, and good taste, with the aid 
of only one servant, the young mistress of the mansion was 
able, without very severe labor, to make all her little house- 
hold comfortable, and to mingle something of elegance with 
the simplicity of her arrangements. The chief merit in all 
this, that it was done with the smallest possible amount of 
means, Alice did not know. Mary had been a cheerful co- 


worker with her brother in his life's labor. Five hundred 
dollars was the amount allowed by the brother and sister 
to their own wants, all the rest that Robert could make, go- 
ing to his great object. By Mary's good management, from 
this sum of five hundred dollars there was sometimes a re- 
mainder at the year's end ; it was never exceeded. Yet 
Alice never saw anv thing wanting at Flowerdale. It is 
true, Mary's dresses were neither so varied nor of such fine 
material as Isabelle and she were accustomed to wear ; but 
then they fitted so perfectly and seemed to suit Mary so 
well, with their grave, quaker colors, and their plain style, 
that no thought of poverty would ever have suggested itself 
in connection with them. 

One thing both Mrs. Montrose and Alice regretted at 
Flowerdale ; it was that they saw so little of its master. 
While they still slept, he breakfasted and left his home, to 
which he did not return often till a late hour of the evening. 
Yet. scarcely a day passed without some evidence that he 
had thought of them. Now, there was a book brought from 
Springfield which Mrs. Montrose had wished to read ; now 
a rare flower, of which he had spoken to Alice, and now a 
pleasant walk or drive planned for them all. 

" Are you not very lonely sometimes in this beautiful 
home ?" asked Alice of Mary, one day. 

" I am very much alone, but rarely lonely ; that is a feel- 
ing for which I have not time. And then you must not 
suppose that Robert is always so much away ; he is particu- 
larly engaged at present." 

" And do you never go to see him at the factory ?" 

" Often; I always breakfast with him when we are alone, 
and in summer I frequently walk to the factory with him in 
the morning, or go in the evening and persuade him to come 
home with me." 

" Does he object to having other visitors there ?" asked 


Alice, hesitating, as if she feared the very question were 
touching on forbidden ground. 

" Not at all ; would you like to go ? I have several 
times thought of proposing it, but feared it might be tire- 
some to you." 

" I should like it very much, if you are sure your 
brother will not be displeased." 

" I am quite sure, so we will go this afternoon, and see 
if we cannot lure him away for a walk." 

They went, Mrs. Montrose declining to accompany them. 
In spite of Mary's assurances, Alice still felt some appre- 
hension that the visit would annoy Mr. Grahame, and, as 
they approached the room which Mary called his- "den," she 
hung back with somewhat of the feeling of a timid child 
who would screen herself behind a bolder companion, when 
caught in an act of questionable propriety. Mr. Grahame 
was giving some directions to a workman at the moment 
they came in sight. He did not see them at first, and when 
he did, no change of countenance, or of manner, marked any 
of that embarrassment or discomposure which Alice had 
feared to produce. With a smiling bow to them, he con- 
tinued, without the slightest interruption, his conversation 
with the workman, till, apparently satisfied, he turned away, 
then advancing to his sister and her friend, he said, " This 
is an unexpected honor ; to which of you am I to make my 
acknowledgments for it ?" 

" Oh ! to Alice. She had some curiosity about which 
was it, Alice ? a factory or a manufacturer ?" 

" Both, I believe," said Alice, laughing. 

" Do you really wish to go through the factory ?" asked 
Grahame, with some surprise. 

" Oh, no !" said Alice, " but, if you have no objection, I 
should like just to take a coup d'asil of the whole that is, 
if you do not dislike." 


"Dislike it! Why should I? I will attend you in a 

He stayed only to put some papers in a desk, lock it and 
take the key out, and then led the way up stairs and to the 
door of the long room in which the looms were busily at 
work, each performing the labor of many men. Between 
every two of these looms stood a young girl, some of them 
looking both pretty and intelligent; others, Alice thought al- 
most as much machines as the looms they attended. Alice 
looked sadly on them. 

" What is the matter ? What offends or grieves you 
here ?" asked Robert Grahame, who observed the change in 
her countenance. 

" Those girls," she said ; " a life of such labor in youth 
must be so hard." 

" Do you think a life of idleness easy ? Some of those 
girls have noble motives for their work ; some are working 
that an old father, or feeble, helpless mother may die be- 
neath the roof which they love, because it sheltered their 
happier life ; some that a young brother may not want the 
culture which his mind craves." 

The face of Alice had changed its expression when Mr. 
Grahame ceased speaking. It was still grave, but with its 
gravity was mingled admiration rather than pity. The 
gravity continued long after she had left the factory. It 
excited the observation of one of her companions; the other 
was as grave and as silent as herself. 

"What is the matter, Alice?" asked Mary Grahame. 
These young girls had already exchanged the ceremonious 
address of strangers for the familiarity of friends. 

;: Matter ! Oh, nothing !" replied Alice, with a smile, 
and a sudden clearing up of the cloud from her brow. 

;; And do you put on such an air of deep thought over 
nothing? or is that a civil rebuke to my Yankee curiosity?" 


Robert G-rahame raised his head and turned his eyes on 
Alice, seeming to expect her answer with some degree of 

Alice colored, and with a laugh which betrayed embar- 
rassment rather than gayety, replied, " I believe I was fast 
arriving at a conclusion of which I am a little ashamed." 
She looked up and met the eyes of Robert G-rahame. They 
questioned her as plainly as words could have done, and 
more forcibly, perhaps. Alice could not resist them, and, 
after a moment's hesitation, continued, " It was very un- 
grateful to my kind uncle, but I was thinking, if he had 
not done so much for us, it might have been better in the 
end ; I might have been able to do for mamma and Charles 
what Mr. Grahame said those girls were doing for their mo- 
thers and brothers." 

Robert Grahame glanced quietly over the person of the 
delicate girl, from the pretty straw hat, beneath which he 
could just see the soft brown curls that shaded a brow of 
the purest white, to the tiny slipper, so tiny that it might 
have been worn by Cinderella herself, and there was the 
slightest tinge of mockery in the tone in which he asked, 
" And you would like to exchange places with those factory 
girls ? 

" Not quite that," said Alice, " but I should like to feel 
that I was capable of doing as they do. I see you do not 
think I am." 

" Excuse me, I have not said so." 

" Not in words, but well, may I ask, what do you 

" I think you should be grateful to Heaven and your 
uncle that the question is likely to remain unanswered. 
There is no romance, Miss Montrose. but a great deal of 
sad and of somewhat coarse reality in the lives of those 


Alice was silenced ; she was even hurt, for there seemed 
to her something of severity in the tone of this reply. The 
reverie into which she fell was interrupted by Mary Gra- 
hame, who had turned aside to secure a spray of wild roses 
that grew temptingly near, and who, now returning, handed 
them to Alice as she asked, " Well how is the question set- 
tled ? Is Robert ready to engage you as a factory hand?" 

" No, he considers me quite useless." 

" Useless ! yes, as a factory hand," said Robert Gra- 
hame with a smile ; " but these flowers," touching the 
roses in her hand, " they furnish us neither with food nor 
clothing ; have they no uses ?" 

" I do not know, they are very beautiful," and Alice 
gazed on them with a loving smile. 

" They are beautiful, and their beauty greets us from 
every wayside hedge, needing no elaborate search or cost- 
ly expenditure. The simple country girl as she twines them 
in her hair, and the clown who gathers them for her, feel a 
new sense stirring within them ; a consciousness of percep- 
tions and wants not purely animal ; yes, beauty has its uses." 

The last words were spoken slowly, deliberately, and 
while the eyes of the speaker rested, perhaps unconsciously, 
not on the flowers, but on the face of Alice. The gaze was 
so prolonged, that her color deepened, and her eyes fell be. 
neath it. When next she looked at him, he was walking a 
little apart, with folded arms, eyes bent upon the earth, and 
the usually serious expression of his countenance seemed to 
have deepened into sadness. During the few days after 
this that she remained at the cottage, he was so much en- 
gaged at .the factory that she scarcely saw him. After the 
arrival of Col. Montrose at Springfield, they met more fre- 
quently, but as it was always in the presence of many others, 
they had little conversation. 

From Springfield Donald made a visit to Boston, that he 


might see Browne, and ascertain the amount of his debt, 
which his father was anxious to pay. What passed between 
them we know not, but on his return, he told his father that 
if he could pay five thousand dollars for him, he would 
never again call upon him for a gambling debt. Col. Mon- 
trose paid it immediately, assuring Donald, as he did so, that 
he should never regret the loss, if it had indeed taught him 
the danger of such an amusement. 

It was now the middle of October, and as the travellers 
intended to spend some time in Virginia, among the rela- 
tions of Mrs. John Montrose, they thought they might com- 
mence their return to Georgia, without danger of arriving 
there too early for health. All turned homeward with joy. 
All felt, though some could not, and some would not have 
told wherefore, that their summer had brought less of 
pleasure, and more of trial than they had anticipated. Don- 
ald was to accompany his friends as far as New- York, where 
he would embark for Tampa Bay ; Col. Montrose having 
obtained orders for him to join the regiment stationed at that 
post, to which Capt. Wharton was also attached. In vain 
did Donald entreat permission of his father, before they sepa- 
rated, to bind Alice to him by indissoluble ties. 

" Only let me have her promise to be mine, and I shall 
leave her with a lighter heart," pleaded Donald. 

But his father was inexorable. " Show yourself worthy 
of her, Donald," he said, " and you have my consent to woo, 
and to win Alice ; but as I would not give my daughter 
to any man who had shown himself as unstable as you, till 
I had provd him, you cannot expect me to be less careful 
for Alice." 

Donald might have taken the affair into his own hands, 
but his father said, " I exact no pledge from you on this 
subject, my son I trust you entirely ; if I could not do so, 


no persuasion, no circumstances could induce me to place 
the happiness of Alice in your keeping ; but whatever else 
my son may want, he will never, I am sure, want honor. He 
may oppose, but he will never deceive me." 

" In this, at least, I will be true," exclaimed Donald, 
wringing the hand his father extended to him, with a force 
of which he was himself unconscious, and with so much of 
bitter feeling depicted in his face, that the kind father 
could not see it without sympathy. 

" Come, cheer up, my boy," he said, laying his hand 
gently on his shoulder, " a year will soon pass ; and then 
you may claim the hea-rt which, as I have told you, I believe 
to be already yours." 

But Donald seemed little comforted, and hurried from 
the room as soon as he was released by his father, leaving 
him to moralize over the impetuosity of youth, and to glide 
on in thought to the time when he should see himself sur- 
rounded by his children, and his chidren's children in the 
home of his fathers, continuing there the name and race he 

" After all," he said, thinking aloud, t: there is a great 
deal in race. I think Grahame, for instance, must have good 
blood in his veins, or he could not have preserved that air 
of nobility amidst such depressing circumstances." 

" Oh yes !" replied Mrs. Charles Montrose, who had en- 
tered, unseen by him, just after Donald left the room, and 
who supposed he was addressing her, " I heard all about 
them from an old lady who called at the cottage one day 
when Miss Grahame and Alice were walking and I was the 
only person left to entertain her. She said she remembered 
when they first came to this country, or at least when their 
father and mother came, and that a servant who accom- 
panied them, used to boast that his master was of a very 


high family abroad ; and indeed she added, that the father 
was proud enough to be the King of England himself ; and 
that his acquaintances were always, to use her expression, 
' tip-top ' people, until Mr. Robert Grahame was sixteen or 
seventeen years old, when he lost his fortune, and his ac- 
quaintances with it." 

" Likely enough, when his acquaintances were Yankees. 
I wish I could get him South, for there, however poor a man 
may be, if he has good blood in his veins and an honest 
heart in his bosom, he is the equal of a prince." 

" Did you invite him to come South ?" 

" Yes, but he declined on the score of business ; then I 
ventured to propose to him, that he should quit his present 
business and study a profession. There is something about 
him which makes it difficult for even an old man like me to 
suggest to him, that there is any thing in his employment 
that might be supposed distasteful to a gentleman ; but I am 
under great obligation to him, and it was worth some effort 
to acquire the power of serving him, so I proposed to him 
that as he had had a collegiate education, and was as I 
learned from Donald an excellent classical scholar, he should 
study a profession ; three or four years would be enough for 
this, and for these years he might command my purse, and 
we would take his sister to our home." 

"And what did he say?" asked Mrs. Montrose, as her 
brother paused. 

" Thanked me warmly, but acknowledged that money 
was his first object, a.nd said that his present employment 
was more lucrative than any profession could be. It is 
strange, but while I never knew another man who would not 
have seemed to me degraded by such an acknowledgment, he 
seemed while making it even more elevated than before 
above the common standard." 


Perhaps one more accustomed to investigate causes than 
Col. Montsose was, would have accounted for what seemed 
so strange to him, by the fact, that where one has evidently 
an abundance of the pure gold, it is of little consequence to 
himself or others that it should not have the " GUINEA STAMP." 



"Oh ! they wander wide who roam, 
For the joys of life from home." 

" There ahides, 

In his allotted home, a genuine priest, 
The shepherd of his flock." 

I HAVE seen nothing this summer, which I liked so well 
as this," exclaimed Col. Montrose, on the evening of his re- 
turn to Montrose Hall, as he drew his chair once more to 
the hearth, beside which we first introduced him to the read- 
er, and where now, as then, a bright fire was blazing. Alice 
sat opposite to him ; between them were Mrs. John and 
Mrs. Chas. Montrose, while Isabelle had drawn her chair to 
table on which the supper was not yet laid, and was cutting 
the leaves of the last Edinburgh Review, which had just been 
brought in. 

" I wish Donald and Charles were with us," said the 
Colonel, as he glanced around on all the accessories of this 
scene of quiet, domestic enjoyment. A sigh from the two 
mothers, and a smile from Alice, responded to the wish. 

Steps were heard, and the next moment there appeared 
in the open door-way a negro about the middle height, and 
spare in form, whose gray head showed him to be no longer 
young, though his broad smile displayed teeth as white 
and sound as ever. His face was radiant with delight. 
" Cato," as he was called by Col. Montrose and the two 


elder ladies " Daddy Cato," as he was hailed by Isabelle 
and Alice, hastened forward to seize the hands extended to 
him in welcome, addressing to each in turn' some appropri- 
ate salutation. 

" How d'ye do, Maussa, I sure I glad to see you look so 
well, sir, and Missis too and Miss Charles and Miss Isa- 
belle and Miss Alice, is grow purtier 'an ever. Well ! I 
tank my Far'er in Heaben I see you all back again once more. 
I hope, sir, you is never goin so far agen." 

" Not very soon, at least, Cato," said Col. Montrose with 
a good-humored smile. 

" And how have- you been, Cato ?" asked Mrs. Montrose. 

" I bin quite smart, ma'am, all summer. I ent had a 
day's sickness ; but Aunt Charlotte and sister Auber is bin 
quite sick dey's a settin up to day though, and dey would 'a 
tried to come here to-night, only I telled 'em you'd be vexed 
if dey come." 

" That was right, Cato ; tell them I will come to see 
them in the morning," said Mrs. John Montrose. " Are all 
the other people well ?" 

" Most on 'em is, ma'am, but sister Harriet's got a baby, 
and sister Judy she lost a child, and aint been well enough 
to work since." 

" Which of her children, Cato ?" 

' De boy, ma'am." 

" What, that smart, bright little Ben ?" 

" Yes, ma'am." 

After a little further conversation on the subject of 
health, and some messages of sympathy to poor Judy, Col. 
Montrose asked, u How much cotton have you got in, Cato?" 

' I don't know 'xactly, sir, how much, but the cotton house 
full. I never see so much cotton in my life. We pick and 
pick, and pick, and when we done, the field look jis' as white 
as when we begin." 


" And how is it with the rice ?" 

The smile vanished from Cato's face, and shaking his 
head sadly, he said, " Ah maussa ! dat las' freshet play de 
mischief wid we up to Sedgefield ; of it wa'n't for dat, sir, 
we'd a had a great crop. But you see, sir, dat 'are freshet ruin 
we I 'fraid, sir ; 'faint left more nor twenty bushel to de acre." 

" Ah well ! the cotton must make up for it, Cato," said 
his master consolingly. 

The supper appeared, and Cato began to bow himself 
out, but Col. Montrose stopped him ; and leaving the room 
for a moment, returned with a parcel, from which he display- 
ed to the smiling eyes of Cato an overcoat, of cloth of a 
finer quality than that usually worn by the negroes, a muf- 
fler, and a fur cap. 

" Tank you, maussa," said Cato ; I 'fraid you make me 
proud, sir, when I get all dese on." 

" Try it, Cato ; let us see you put them on," and no- 
thing loth, Cato attired himself in coat, hat, and muffler, 
and gazed with evident pleasure on the reflection of his own 
figure in the pier glass. At length Cato was suffered to de- 
part, saying, however, as he went, " Some of de people is 
a waitin' to see you, sir, tell you done supper ; sister Peggy 
wouldn't let 'em come before, 'cause she say your supper 
would be all cold 'fore dey was done talkin'." 

The supper ended, all the family went out into the yard, 
where about fifty negroes were assembled around a fire of 
pitch-pine, whose intense blaze brought out into strong re- 
lief, their sable faces and rude forms, with the objects imme- 
diately surrounding them ; leaving in deeper darkness all 
|beyond the circle of its rays. The faces, the names of all 
were familiar. Each had a kind clasp of the hand, a word 
of pleasant greeting, and testimonial of remembrance a 
bright bandana handkerchief, and calico dress to the wo- 
men a jacket and muffler to the men. Before these had all 


been distributed, Mr. Dunbar came up and was received 
with evident delight by both white and black. He looked 
on with benevolent sympathy while the gifts were allotted to 
each, when stopping them as they were about to disperse, af- 
ter whispering a few words to Col. Montrose, he said : " We 
have a great deal to be thankful for to-night, my friends 
have we not?" 

" Oh yes, maussa ! dat we has," was the response from 
every tongue. 

" Then before we separate let us unite in grateful wor- 
ship of our Heavenly Father. Let us sing the hymn begin- 

" Come Thou Fount of every blessing, 
Tune my heart to sing thy praise, 
Streams of mercy never ceasing, 
Call for songs of endless praise." 

The hymn was known to most even of the negroes, and 
their melodious, though untutored voices, in union with the 
silvery notes of Alice Isabelle did not sing this evening 
and the deeper and fuller tones of Mr. Dunbar, made not 
unpleasing music. When the hymn was finished, the good 
pastor repeated the 103d psalm, and then lifted up his voice 
in a prayer so simple, that it needed no interpreter even to 
the most ignorant ; yet full of eloquence, the eloquence of 
feeling and in its humility and love, its thanksgiving and 
praise, bearing witness that the spirit from which it. proceed- 
ed was that of a true child of God. 

The negroes dispersed without a word, but with kind and 
friendly glances ; all hearts had been at once warmed and sol- 
emnized. As Mr. Dunbar was saying good-night, Alice whis- 
pered a request that she might see him in the morning. 

" Can you not come to me ?" he asked ; ' you have not 
forgotten the way to the parsonage." 


" Oh no ! I will be there directly after breakfast." 

" After all, there is no place like home !" ejaculated Col. 
Montrose again, as he entered the house. 

Isabelle's was the only face which the events of the 
evening had not brightened. It had been pale and sad for 
months, it was not less pale and sad to-night. She and 
Alice had their beds in the same room ; ere she entered hers, 
Alice knelt beside it in silent prayer. Her face was hidden 
by her clasped hands, but below them fell a few -quiet tears. 
Isabelle neither wept nor prayed. 

The next day was one of those bright, soft November 
days, which make the glory of a Southern winter, with a 
light hoar frost upon the ground, and just enough of chill in 
the air to give a good excuse for kindling a cheerful fire. 
Alice was awakened early by the girl who came to kindle 
one for Isabelle and herself, and she instantly sprang up 
with the feeling that she had some important task to per- 
form that day. Breakfast was always early at Montrose 
Hall, and immediately after it, Alice prepared for her walk 
to the Parsonage. As she was leaving the house, Mrs. John 
Montrose having inquired in what direction she intended to 
walk, offered to accompany her as far as the negro houses by 
which the path to the parsonage led. These houses were 
distant about a quarter of a mile from the Hall, from which 
they were screened by a belt of wood. They consisted of 
some fifty small houses, containing generally only two rooms, 
built on each side of a broad street or road. To most of 
them gardens were attached, in some of which a peach or 
nectarine tree was growing ; and a few cabbages or turnips 
still remained, to furnish material for the favorite delicacy 
of their cultivators pepper-pot. But nothing probably 
would so have attracted a stranger's eye as the poultry 
fowls, ducks, and turkeys which roamed about them, and 
the children of all ages, from the infant of a few weeks, to 


the boy or girl of twelve years old, who were at play in the 
road. These children were all dressed alike, the girls in a 
frock, the boys in a loose jacket and trousers, of gray cloth. 
Their feet and heads were bare, and there was an evident 
want of cleanliness perceptible in them at the first glance ; 
but this did not interfere with their merriment, which was 
as hearty as that of young lords could have been. They 
evinced the same diversities of character usually found 
among children ; some running away as Mrs. Montrose and 
Alice appeared in sight, others hanging back bashfully till 
called by them, and others coming boldly forward to speak 
to them. 

Giving to her aunt, who was about to enter one of the 
houses, some parcels, containing little delicacies for the sick, 
which had been committed to her care, Alice proceeded on 
her way, crossing, a little farther on, a rustic bridge, thrown 
over a shallow but wide creek, and then winding on through 
a wood not very thickly set, where, in the undergrowth, a 
few fall flowers still showed themselves amid the wild myr- 
tle, the bright-leaved holly, and the darker cassena, with 
their glistening red berries. Emerging from this wood, 
Alice found herself on a lawn, dotted here and there by a 
clump of oaks, at whose farther extremity appeared the Par- 
sonage, a wooden building, a story and a half in height, with 
shelving roof and broad piazzas. It was approached through 
a court-yard, in which rose trees, six or eight feet high, which 
were covered with the beautiful but scentless daily rose, and 
the more delicate and fragrant noisette. As Alice entered this 
yard, a Newfoundland dog, that lay near the gate, arose, and, 
shaking his shaggy sides, advanced to meet her with an evi- 
dent air of recognition. Her " How d'ye do, Triton," at- 
tracted the attention of a negress who was scrubbing the 
floor of the piazza with a piece of palmetto root, to which a 
long handle had been attached, keeping time by her move- 


ments to the wild music of a hymn of that peculiar style 
more frequently heard in Methodist congregations than else- 
where. Dropping her scrubbing brush, as she saw Alice, 
this woman came forward, extending the hand she had first 
carefully wiped upon her apron, with many a joyful exclama- 
tion of welcome. 

" Well, Hagar, how do you do ?" said Alice, giving her 
hand, as she spoke, to her old friend. 

" Quite well, Miss Alice, and how you do and Miss Isa- 
belle. I sho' I glad for see you come back j it bin so lone- 
some for maussa sence you bin gone." 

" Is he now in the house, Hagar ?" 

" Yes. ma'am, you fin' 'em in de ole place but how pur- 
ty you do look, Miss Alice ! Ah ! I expec' some o' dem 
gentlemen from de Nort' will be 'long here soon, en't it, 
Miss Alice ?" 

" Why, you do not think I would have any thing to say 
to a Yankee do you, Hagar?" asked Alice, with a laugh. 

" Well, I don' know, Miss Alice ; I don' like 'em much, 
dat's de trufe. but some o' dem purty smart for all." 

With a smile at Hagar's commendation of those with whom 
she had no more acquaintance than she had obtained from 
an occasional visit of a pedler of clocks, or of an invalid tra- 
veller in search of a more genial clime, who had been attract- 
ed by Southern hospitality to this secluded spot, Alice left 
her. and, entering the house, proceeded to the room which 
Mr. Dunbar called his study. It was not large, and its bare 
floor, uncovered tables and uncushioned chairs, would have 
given it an air of poverty, perhaps, in the eyes of one accus- 
tomed to the luxurious arrangements by which such a room 
may be made attractive; but Hagar took care that the floor 
should be as white, and the tables as glossy "as hands could 
make them." Nor was cleanliness the only charm which the 
room presented. The old pastor was writing at a window, 
beside which grew an orange tree, whose yellow fruit tt 


might have plucked without rising from his seat. The 
view from this window was one of that quiet beauty in which 
the neighborhood was rich. Seaward, the boundless expanse 
of ocean; landward, the green savannah, its surface sprinkled 
with the gay colors of autumnal flowers, and its level broken 
by an occasional clump of oaks. But. pleasant as this view 
was, it would have been surpassed in interest to a genuine 
lover of books by that within the room, whose walls were 
covered with shelves, filled with books, the selection of a 
scholar and the produce of a life's economy. 

Mr. Dunbar sat at a table covered with books and writing 
materials. At the moment that Alice entered, he was deeply 
engaged in reading from a little book, with well-worn cover, 
which she recognized at once as his Greek Testament. 
She stood for a moment in the door-way, observing the kind- 
ly face and snow-white head bent so reverently above the 
holy volume, and then advanced into the room. Mr. Dun- 
bar did not perceive her till she was close beside him, and 
then he did not rise to greet her, or lay aside his book, but, 
looking up with a pleasant smile, he said, " I wish you had 
studied Greek, Alice, and then you might feel the beauty of 
this passage, as you can never feel it from our translation, 
correct as it is. Listen," and he read a few verses in the 
original Greek. '' Is not that beautiful ?" 

" It is very musical," said Alice, " but it is only to me 
as a pleasant song." 

" I know it, my poor child ; I am sorry it is so. I 
should have been so happy, too, to teach you Greek, and you 
chose instead to learn German and French. Well, there is 
no accounting for tastes, and I must not quarrel with a gay 
young girl for diifering a little from a sober old man ;" he 
held her hand as he spoke, and, drawing a chair to his side, 
seated her in it and asked, <; Where is Isabelle 1 Why did 
you not bring her along ?" 

" Because I wanted you all to myself this morning." 


Alice spoke playfully, and Mr. Dunbar answered in the 
same tone, " Does that portend a confession as it used to do 
in old times ? You look very much as you did years ago, 
when you would steal in here to tell me of some task that 
pleasanter engagements had driven from your mind." 

' But this is a task which I have got into my mind, and 
do not know how to accomplish without your help." 

" Well, what is it ? Let us hear." 

Why is it that the young, ingenuous soul shrinks so 
from the disclosure of its first, earnest views of the relations 
in which it stands to God and man to its Creator and its 
fellow-creatures ? Is it that these views these first, faint 
aspirations of the soul after a higher good, bring us into a 
region so remote from the common, or, at least, the apparent 
life of those around us, that we fear their expression may 
seem an assumption of an unusual sanctity, to which our 
conscious spirits forbid us to lay claim ? or is it that this 
expression would seem to pledge us to a future of effort to 
which we fear our powers are unequal ? Whatever be the 
cause, the effect is, we believe, universal. Alice presented 
no exception to the rule, and when she would now have 
spoken to her old friend of solemn thoughts which the re- 
membrance of a great danger had awakened, and the new 
sense of responsibility which the example of Mary Grahame 
had impressed on her, words refused to come ; she colored, 
and hesitated, and looked so embarrassed that Mr. Dunbar 
began to apprehend a more serious confidence than he had 
at first anticipated. 

" Can the child have formed any foolish attachment ?" 
he said to himself. 

The question with which Alice at length commenced her 
communication did not tend to relieve his doubts. 

" Did my uncle write you of our visit to Springfield, and 
of the Mr. and Miss Grahame whom we went there to see?" 



" Yes, be wrote me of Mr. Grahame's kindness to Donald, 
and afterwards, of his self-possession in saving you and your 
mother from a burning house, and he said, I think, that he 
had a sister, and that you intended to visit them, but Mr. 
Grahame is only a mechanic, I believe," said Mr. Dunbar, 
somewhat irrelevantly, as it seemed to Alice. 

Her quick, earnest speech, and heightened color did not 
undeceive him, as she answered, " He may be a mechanic, 
but he is not only that, for he is a scholar, a gentleman, and 
a Christian." 

" All that may be, and I dare say is, and yet your 
uncle " 

" My uncle admires him as much as I do." 

" He may do so, and yet may be unwilling to see you 
connect yourself with one so far beneath you in the world's 

" Connect myself ! I do not understand you," cried 
Alice, while cheek, neck and brow grew crimson, and her 
heart beat with an emotion which she did not pause to ana- 
lyze. Rapidly she hurried on, " I wanted to speak to you 
of Mr. and Miss Grahame's interest in their work-people 
especially of Miss Grahame's ; how she had taught many who 
came to her quite ignorant, to read and write, and of the 
Bible class with which she spent her afternoons on Sunday, 
and of a great many other things, which made me ashamed 
of my useless Ufe. I tried at first to excuse myself, under 
the plea of different circumstances, and to persuade myself 
that I had none whom I could teach and influence as she 
did these people ; but then I remembered the negroes, and 
how much I could teach them, and how ready they always 
were to do as I wished, and I thought if my uncle were 
willing but I cannot speak to him about it." 

" And you want me to speak for you." said Mr. Dunbar, 
with a smile, and a mind greatly relieved of anxiety. 


" If you please ; and I want you to tell me what to do, 
and how to do it. I am so ignorant, it seems so presump- 
tuous that I should try to teach others I mean about such 
things." The voice of Alice faltered, and tears rose to her 

" Fear not, my dear child," said the Christian pastor, as 
he laid his hand affectionately on her head ; " only let your 
own heart be right with God. and all will be right. Look 
away from yourself, Alice ; from your own good and your 
own evil, your own weakness and your own strength, to Him 
in whom is all wisdom, and all strength, to the Blessed Sa- 
viour. Love much, Alice, and pray much ; and be assured 
that He who has put into your heart the desire to serve him, 
will guide you to the fulfilment of that desire." 

Alice wept, but they were happy tears, such tears as a 
penitent and pardoned child weeps on the breast of a loving 
parent ; and she returned home so strengthened and elevated, 
that she found no difficulty in speaking to her mother of her 

Col. Montrose, though he thought it was a strange fancy 
in Alice, and one of which she would soon tire, and though 
he doubted very much whether the negroes would be either 
better or happier for being taught, readily consented to her 
trying the experiment. The " Prayers House," as a rooin 
was called which had been built for the devotional exercises 
of the negroes, and in which they were accustomed to meet 
for a few minutes every morning before going to work, and 
every evening about eight o'clock, was thoroughly cleansed, 
the floor sanded, benches prepared, and with a degree of 
nervousness which she found it impossible to subdue, she 
commenced her task. She had little at first to encourage 
her ; her uncle feared she had undertaken what she could 
not long endure Mrs. John Montrose talked with a smile 
of youthful enthusiasm Isabelle, when she would have won 


her to a participation in her undertaking, begged to be ex- 
cused, assuring her that she had not the slightest disposi- 
tion to play the school-ma'am, and, worse than all, a visitor 
one day complimented her on her philanthropy. Poor 
Alice ! many a time would she have fainted and grown weary, 
had her strength been in herself. From her mother and 
Mr. Dunbar alone, of all the world, did she find sympathy 
and help. Her very pupils for some time laughed at the 
idea that " Miss Alice wanted them to read books, like her 
and Miss Isabelle." To a sensitive and timid girl, all this 
was a species of martyrdom ; and many a time did Alice re- 
tire to her room to weep in secret, and to ask herself if she 
must indeed continue what was so disagreeable to herself, 
and so unprofitable to others ; but a few words from Mr. 
Dunbar, or, if he were not near, a single thought sent up- 
ward, never failed to bring back to her, peace, strength, and 
hope. And only a few weeks passed before her hope began 
to be fulfilled. Two or three of her brightest pupils could 
form letters into words ; could read for themselves a text in 
the Bible, and the whole face of affairs was changed at once. 
They were pleased, and their parents delighted. One morn- 
ing as she sat in the school-room listening to the " stammer- 
ing tongues" which were uttering precious truths. Daddy 
Cato made his appearance. Alice did not see him at first, 
and he stood with his head uncovered and reverently bowed 
while the 13th verse of the 103d Psalm was read " Like as 
a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that 
fear him ;" then, as the voice of the reader ceased, he 
exclaimed, " Dat's good, Miss Alice, I lub to hear dat ; lem 
me see how he look, Joe." 

Alice held out to him the book from which the boy had 
been reading, containing texts of Scripture printed in very 
large type. Cato looked at it earnestly, then said, " Please 
show me, Miss Alice, which word da Far'er." 


Alice pointed it out, and then said, " Why not learn to 
read yourself, Daddy Cato ?" 

" Me, Missis !" he cried, " a'nt me too old ?" 
" Not if you are willing to try." 

" Willin' ! Hi, missis ! I too willin'. I willin' for try till 
I dead, if I only can read da' blessed book once for my- 
self.' 1 

" Oh ! you will soon learn, Daddy Cato ; you see even 
Joe here is able to read a little. Suppose when you come 
from the field to your dinner every day at twelve o'clock, you 
call here ; I will send the children away, and you and I will 
read together, while maum Auber is cooking your dinner." 

" Far'er in Heaben bless you, missis, for say dat word ! 
I glad tell I can't glad no more," and the tears which stood 
in the old man's eyes as he turned away, spoke his joy more 
emphatically than any words could do. And day after day 
might Cato have been seen entering the school-room at the 
appointed hour; and we think few painters could have de- 
sired a more pleasing or interesting subject for the pencil, 
than was given by that fair young girl, and the sable son of 
Africa, as they sat side by side ; her face beaming with the 
tender pity of an angel his, full of the simplicity, the ear- 
nestness, the docility of a little child. The same book was 
held on one side by a hand which nature had marked with 
the color of a curse, and which toil had rendered coarse and 
hard ; and on the other, by one of lily-like fairness and deli- 
cacy. Cato did not learn easily, the old seldom do, but he 
was untiring in his perseverance ; and when once the mys- 
tery of letters was conquered, when those strange marks 
acquired character in his eyes, and formed themselves into a 
word, the expression of a thought, the difficulty was over ; 
and his improvement became rapid. It was perhaps two 
months after we first introduced him to the reader, that he 
sat beside Alice, and from the book we described above, read 


the verse already quoted. He had asked that she would 
not help him. but would permit him to read it for himself. 
He succeeded even better than Alice or he himself had hoped. 
As he finished it, tears rushed into his eyes, and clasp- 
ing his hands together, he cried, " I read de blessed word 
myself, now I know he's dere. Oh Miss Alice ! how I can 
tank my Far'er in Heaben. and how I can tank you !" 

Alice was more than repaid for all her trials ; aye, she 
would have been repaid for a hundred-fold more when she 
saw Cato, as often after this she saw him, bending over the 
Bible which Mr. Dunbar ha.d given him, with the same ex- 
pression of ecstatic joy in his face, as she now saw there. 
Nor was she the only one on whom this sight exercised a 
salutary influence. Col. Montrose became an earnest advo- 
cate for her views, when he saw the use which Cato made of 
her instruction. Mrs. Montrose still smiled, but the smile 
had changed its character, it was approving, not deriding ; 
and Isabelle, after a visit to the school-room, exclaimed, " I 
envy you, Alice." 

" You need not do that, Belle, for you can join me and 
share my pleasure," said Alice. 

" I should find no pleasure in it : there is the very thing 
I envy ; a heart so free from all selfish interests that you 
can find enjoyment here." 

But not only at home did Alice now find friends for her 
undertaking. Many who heard of it wondered that it had 
never occurred to them. Gentle and generous hearts which 
had ever felt deep interest in the well-being of the slave, 
hailed this dawn of intellectual advancement for him with 
delight ; and the example of Alice was followed by the 
wives or daughters of most of the gentlemen planters resid- 
ing within visiting distance ; that is within twenty miles of 
Montrose Hall. From these the influence was communicat- 
ed to others more distant, till it spread over several counties. 


But when was a good work ever begun on our earth that 
the evil spirit did not find some mode of throwing obstruc- 
tions in its way ? Of these obstructions, the most effectual 
as well as the most frequent is, to send forth a spirit from 
the pit wearing the features of the Angel of light, under 
whose ministration the good work has been done, yet with 
those features so exaggerated and distorted, that they shall 
inspire dismay and aversion. Does Luther preach reform 
in the Christian church ? Immediately fanatics in various 
parts of the world start up, calling for the destruction of all 
existing forms of thought and life. Does the mind of France 
at a later date strive to emancipate itself from the despotism 
of its Jesuitical rulers ? Freedom becomes the watchword of 
infidelity, and under its sacred name horrors are perpetrated 
which shall sicken the hearts, not of living men only, but 
of all succeeding generations. 

Thus now, when many of those in whose hands God in 
the movements of His providence had placed the destinies 
of the negro, were awakened to a deeper sense of their re- 
sponsibilities to him, and were beginning to give him that ac- 
cess to the word of life, which would have richly repaid him 
for all earthly toil and privations, there arose a spirit calling 
itself by the name of love, but kindling by its breath hatred 
and revenge. 

We are anticipating, however, for nearly a year passed 
away without interruption to the good work whose com- 
mencement we have sketched. During this time the life of 
our friends at Montrose Hall was varied by few external 
changes. Yet it stood not still. Each of them was moving 
with a progression it may be perceptible only to that eye 
which sees in the present alike the past, of which it is the 
fruit, and the future of which it is the seed towards their 
destined bourne. To Mr. Dunbar it seemed, that the habit of 
earnest thought for others, the daily submission of her own 
will to a principle of duty, was giving to the character of Alice 


a consistency and strength, which he had feared would ever 
be wanting, to one naturally so timid, and so sensitive. She 
was not self-relying, she never would be ; but she was learn- 
ing to lean without fear, or doubt, upon an Almighty arm, 
and the repose which this gave to her heart was written in 
her life. Perhaps this was the more remarkable from its 
contrast with the fitful moods of Isabelle, who was now 
under the influence of depressing gloom, and now of reckless 
levity, though even in her gayest words there seemed a vein 
of bitterness. 

" What is the matter, Isabelle ?" asked Mr. Dunbar one 
afternoon, as entering the parlor, he found her there alone, 
sitting near a window, her arms hanging listlessly down, and 
her eyes fixed like those of one in reverie. 

Isabelle started with surprise at the sound of his voice, 
for she had not seen his approach, yet she answered quickly, 
and gayly, " Matter ! oh matter enough sir, for the specula- 
tion of twenty heads wiser than mine." 

" And may I inquire what was the subject of speculation 
with you at present ?" 

" Well ! I believe the last subject was the versatility of 
young ladies, and the fascinations not of young gentlemen, 
but of negro children. Here is Alice positively refusing to 
go with me to Savannah, and insisting upon it that she had 
rather stay in the country, and spend her mornings at that 
tiresome school." 

" Perhaps Alice does not think it tiresome. She seems 
very happy in her present life." 

" And that was just the enigma I was trying to solve." 

" And to what* conclusion did you come ?" 

" To no positive conclusion, only to a vague suspicion 
that she had become a candidate for canonization." 

Mr. Dunbar's countenance assumed a pitying expression 
as he said, " Are you happy, Isabelle ?" 

For an instant her eye fell beneath the mild steadfast- 


ness of his, but only for an instant. Throwing back her 
head with a movement that had something of haughtiness in 
it, she exclaimed, " Happy ! oh Mr. Dunbar ! I would not 
be convicted of any thing so commonplace and unsentimen- 
tal for the world/' 

Again his eye, gentle as it was, conquered hers, and as 
she looked down the color mounted to her cheek, with shame 
perhaps for her flippancy to one, who deserved her highest 
respect both from age, station, and character. She had not 
yet recovered her usually proud and free air, when a horse was 
heard rapidly approaching, and rising she apologized to Mr. 
Dunbar for leaving him, informing him at the same time, that 
he would find her father in the next room, and adding, as 
she took her hat and whip from the table beside her, " I 
promised to ride with Mr. Clarke, and here he is." 

As Isabelle left the room Mr. Dunbar approached the 
window, and saw from it the young man whom she had 
named, standing beside a powerful bay horse from which he 
had just dismounted, while a groom was leading forward her 
own riding-horse, of a lighter and more symmetrical form, 
and unspotted whiteness. But Mr. Dunbar's eye rested not 
on the horses, but on the youth, whose tall, sinewy form 
showed the hardy vigor of a countryman, and whose move- 
ments had less of courtly polish than of the wild, free grace 
of one unaccustomed to restraint. His face, bronzed by 
exposure to sun and wind, and possessing no regularity of 
feature, was yet handsome from the bright joyous expression 
by which it was irradiated. He was just nineteen, being but 
a few months older than Isabelle herself. They had been 
playmates in childhood, and as their homes were within five 
miles of each other, and as William Clarke had been one of 
Mr. Dunbar's pupils, and had never left home to complete 
the education thus commenced, their intimacy had continued 
unbroken to the present time. Isabelle, though reserved 


almost to haughtiness in her intercourse with gentlemen in 
general, allowed William Clarke all the privileges of a 
brother, and would as soon have dreamed of his entertaining 
matrimonial designs in relation to his sister as to her. 

Having examined the equipments of her horse, tried 
the girthing of the saddle, seen that the cloth lay smoothly, 
and that the stirrup was properly arranged, to all which he 
attended carefully himself, in spite of the somewhat provok- 
ing smile of the black groom who stood beside him, and his 
assurance, " All right, and no mistake, Mass William," 
Clarke turned to Isabelle, who stood on the piazza, awaiting 
his summons, and cried, with brotherly freedom, " Come, 
Bella," yet there was something more than brotherly admi- 
ration in his eyes, as he watched her approach. He held out 
a large, bony handj but Isabelle hesitated to put her foot 
in it. 

"Are you sure you are strong enough, Will?" she asked. 

Agrippa, the groom, laughed maliciously. 

" Nonsense, Bella ! I could carry you for a day without 

" I should not like to try it," she said. 

" I should," replied Will, as he received the little foot, 
and, lifting her to the saddle, placed it in* the stirrup. 
Making sure that Agrippa had moved away too far to hear 
him, as he put the reins in her hand, he said, " You are 
very beautiful in that hat, Bella." 

With a gay, unembarrassed laugh, Isabelle exclaimed, 
" My hat is very much obliged to you, but cannot stay here 
any longer to receive your compliments, so give me my 

Receiving them, she touched her horse with her light 
riding-whip, and was off at a gallop, before he could mount. 
To rest his hand on his horse, spring into the saddle, and, 
by a slight touch of the spur, send him off at a rapid pace, 


was the work of a moment. He overtook and passed her in 
time to open for her the large gate in the fence that sepa- 
rated the grounds around Montrose Hall from the woods 

" Now for a gallop !" cried Isabelle, as the gate closed 
behind them. And away they went. To the outward eye 
no happier pair could be found that day on the earth's sur- 
face than this ; yet, with one, joyous as she seems, ride 
where she will, there rides " black care." 

Mrs. John Montrose had seen her daughter mount and 
ride away, followed by young Clarke, and, throwing up the 
window at which she sat, she called to Agrippa, inquiring 
why he had not accompanied his young mistress. 

" Miss Is'bel didn't tell me for go, ma'am, and Mass 
William say he no want me," was the answer. 

" That is strange," said Mrs. John Montrose, drawing 
in her head and addressing her husband, who was within 
the room ; " I never before knew Isabelle ride with any one 
but you or Donald without a groom." 

" That is because you have never before known her ride 
with William. She cares no more for him than for Donald." 

" But she ought to remember, William is no longer a 

" Well, what then ? He is a very clever young man a 
good-hearted, honest fellow, like his father before him. I 
should have no objection to see Isabelle settled at Fairhope 
as Mrs. Clarke." 

" You forget that there is a younger brother and two 
sisters, to one of whom Fairhope may belong." 

" Not if Isabelle should marry William ; Clarke has 
told me as much." 

" Well, you and Mr. Clarke are the last persons in the 
world I should have suspected of match-making," said Mrs. 
Montrose, with a smile. 


It may interest the reader to take a momentary glance 
at the home to which Colonel Mentrose evidently destined 
his daughter. For this purpose we will daguerreotype the 
picture it presented at the moment his observation was 
made. It was the latter part of February, and already the 
early spring had clothed the woods with beauty, and breathed 
its odors on the air. Fairhope had not the advantage pos- 
sessed by Montrose Hall of a sea-view. The only water 
visible from it was a narrow stream, winding for miles a de- 
vious course through low, marshy ground. But, to compen- 
sate for this, the house and its immediate surroundings ex- 
hibited a scene of rural enjoyment and beauty rarely sur- 
passed. At the moment we present it to the reader, Mrs. 
Clarke was sitting on the upper step of the stairs leading 
from the piazza in the rear of the house to the yard 
beneath. Fat and forty she was. but fair we can hardly call 
her. She was evidently one who had never denied herself 
the enjoyment of the bright sun, or the free air, from any 
care for her complexion, which, however, could never have 
been a blonde, as appeared from the soft, silky black hair, 
escaping in a careless ringlet here and there from an em- 
broidered muslin cap, whose fashion was none of the latest, 
but which might have been redeemed from utter condemna- 
tion by the richness of its lace and the beauty of its lilac 
ribbons. But no outward adornment was necessary to re- 
commend a face so full of kindness and unpretending good- 
ness as that of Mrs. Clarke, as she sits there, her skilful fin- 
gers plying the needle, not in some embroidery, or other 
graceful fancy work, by which fine ladies manage sometimes 
to persuade themselves that they are patterns of industry, 
but in a shirt made all of the finest linen, Mr. Clarke 
would wear nothing else in which every stitch had its rule, 
and every seam its measure. A little girl, ten years old, 
perhaps, was seated at her side, with a lap full of the fra- 


grant yellow jessamine, the flowers of which she was stringing 
on a thread. In the yard below was a promiscuous assem- 
blage of turkeys, fowls, ducks and geese, whose voices, dis- 
cordant as they were, made music not unacceptable to a 
good housewife, to whom they gave promise of future din- 
ners. In the centre of this noisy crowd stood a slender, 
well-made black girl, who was throwing corn amongst them 
from a basket on her arm. 

" Throw some this way, Myra, to these chickens," cried 
Mrs. Clarke. " that old gander takes all you throw there." 

" Yes, ma'am," said Myra, with a merry laugh, as she 
threw a handful of the grain over toward the house, " he 
jis' like old Mr. Dibbin, he eat up every thing come in his 
way. Get away, old Dibbin !" and she pushed the gander 

" You saucy jade, do you mean to call Mr. Dibbin a 

Myra looked to the piazza, and seeing a gentleman of 
fifty or thereabouts standing near Mrs. Clarke, from whom 
the question had proceeded, she dropped her head and slunk 
away, as if ashamed, though an arch smile still played about 
her lips. Mrs. Clarke laughed heartily as she watched her 
going, then looking up at her husband, she said, " Mr. Dib- 
bin is no favorite with Myra. I suspect she thinks he was 
at the bottom of his Tom's giving her up last winter, when 
we all thought he was going to marry her, and marrying one 
of his own women instead." 

" Well, if he was, it was a very wise thing in him, and a 
great deal better for Tom and for Myra, too. Tom will be 
on the same place with his wife now, and Myra will marry 
John, at Montrose Hall." 

" Then she will not be with her husband, father, and I 
don't see how she will be any better off than with Tom," 
said the little girl, evidently inclining to the interests of the 


first love. Mr. Clarke did not answer her, but he looked at 
his wife, and they exchanged smiles which seemed to say 
that they had reasons, unknown to their daughter, for think- 
ing Moutrose Hall not very distant from Fairhope. 

" Father, what are you doing with your gun?" questioned 
Jane Clarke, as she at this moment perceived that her father 
held a double-barrelled gun in his hand, and shrank away 
from the formidable weapon. 

" Nothing, now," he said, as he smilingly removed it from 
her by taking it in his other hand ; " but I have been cleaning 
it, and to-morrow I hope to kill, at least, one buck with it." 

" Will the gentlemen who hunt with you come here to 
breakfast, father?" 

" Yes, my daughter." 

" Oh ! I am so sorry ; those howling dogs will wake us 
up before daylight." 

" Those howling dogs ! Wait till you find yourself in 
the woods of a spring morning, before the sun is up, follow- 
ing a pack of hounds in full cry, Miss Jane, before you say 
you have heard music." 

" I had rather hear it in the woods than when I am in 
bed," said Jane, and most persons, we think, would have 
been of her opinion who should have been at Fairhope the 
next morning. 

At early dawn. Mr. Clarke was in the piazza, loading the 
guns to be used by his son William and himself great 
Nimrods both, giving orders to their grooms respecting 
their horses, and occasionally speaking to a colored woman, 
whom he called Elsie, to hurry her with the arrangements 
she was making for breakfast. * Four gentlemen, the com- 
panions of the day's intended hunt, soon arrived, all well 
mounted, and wearing a shot-pouch and powder-horn, slung 
over one shoulder, and a small blowing horn, highly polished, 
and tipped with silver, over the other. Breakfast wag the 


first business, and this was given to the gentlemen by Elsie, 
no ladies making their appearance at the meal. The conver- 
sation was on the day's hunt. 

" Did you send Tom to drive the deer ?" asked Mr. 
Clarke of our friend William. 

" No, father. Tom's child was so sick that he did not 
like to go so far away, and I sent Sam." 

" Sent Sam ? W r hat does he know about driving deer ? 
I am afraid our hunt will be spoiled. If you had told me 
about it last night, I would have sent over to Col. Montrose 
for his John." 

" Why is not the Colonel with us ?" asked a gentleman. 

" Well, I don't know," answered Mr. Clarke ; " but it 
seems to me he is not half the man he used to be before he 
went to the North last summer. I remember when there 
couldn't be a hunt any where without the Colonel; but when 
I talked to him about it yesterday, he said he didn't know 
about coming, it would depend on how he felt to-day." 

" I have heard it said that Donald was a pretty wild boy. 
I expect he must have spent a heap of money at West 
Point," said another of the Colonel's acquaintances. 

" Ah, well ! boys will be boys, and Montrose can pay all 
his son spends easy enough, I expect /" said Mr. Clarke. 

" Yes, I dare say," rejoined another guest ; " is his 
daughter as handsome as ever ?" 

"William thinks so," answered Mr. Clarke, following, with 
a smiling eye, the retreating figure of his son, who had made 
a rapid exit at the introduction of Isabelle into the conver- 

" Ah ! sits the wind in that quarter ?" exclaimed the 
questioner, with a laugh ; " I thought the pretty niece was 
William's attraction to Montrose Hall !" 

" Alice ? Oh ! she is too grave for Will. If Donald 
has not secured her, she will suit my sober Allan better," 


" Where is Allan ? Does he not hunt with us to-day ?" 

" Allan hunt ! If he does it won't be with me ; I lost the 
finest buck of the season the last time he went with me, 
through his carelessness. I had given him the very best 
stand, about a quarter of a mile away from mine ; well you 
see, Tom roused up a noble fellow over in the Mount Hope 
drive, and he come bounding out into the road, about fifty 
yards ahead of me ; I could have knocked him over as easy as 
looked at him ; I had my rifle up twice to shoot, but he was 
going right towards Allan, and I thought it would give the 
boy so much pleasure to bring down such a buck, that I lower- 
ed the gun, and mounting my horse, followed after him. Well, 
every moment I expected to hear the gun, and when I did not 
hear it. I began to think the deer must have taken to the 
woods again ; but no there was his track all the way along 
the road till I came upon Allan, and what do you think he 
was doing?" 

Mr. Clarke paused, and his listener looked all curiosity. 

" He was lying down under a tree, reading some nonsen- 
sical book " 

" No !" exclaimed the listener, with an emphasis expres- 
sive of the utmost incredulity. 

" Indeed he was ; and his gun leaning against another tree 
yards off. And when I asked him which way the deer had 
gone, if you'll believe me, he had never seen it ; did not even 
know that such a thing had been there. I vowed then he 
should never hunt with me again but there goes William." 

The last observation was induced by hearing a few notes 
of a horn, which, however unintelligible their language might 
have been to human ears unskilled in the science of woodcraft, 
seemed to be perfectly understood by the hounds. These im- 
mediately sent forth a responsive howl, as their long, deep- 
toned bark might well be termed ; and gathered around the 
young huntsman, as if impatient to begin the work of the 


day. The call brought forth Mr. Clarke and his companions. 
They were quickly mounted and set forth six gallant-look- 
ing men, with forms developed into vigorous symmetry by 
country labors, and country sports, and faces whose frank 
and careless glee and sans souciant good nature we should 
vainly strive to match, amid the crowded thousands of a 
busy city. Their dogs followed, their long ears almost 
touching the ground to which they bent their heads in run- 
ning ; their deep prolonged bark hushed as soon as they 
were in motion, to be opened only when they should be put 
on the deer's track. 

Pity it is, doubtless, that such tireless energy, spirit so 
adventurous, should have no nobler aim than victory over the 
life of a timid deer. There is something too in the manner 
in which the poor stag is chased from covert to covert, 
through seemingly impassable thickets, for a compass of 
twenty miles or more, and in the delight with which he is 
at last brought to bay, and shot down in his helpless terror, 
which savors too strongly of cruelty to please us in our mo- 
ments of reflection. But this is a point from which no gen- 
uine sportsman could be brought to view a hunt. The exhila- 
ration of pursuit, without regard to the object; the rapid. fear- 
less ride " over brake and through brier ;" the competition with 
others as ardent in the pursuit as they; the eager cry of their 
dogs, the inspiriting music of the horn- -these make up the 
idea which the word " hunt " presents to sportsmen. All, 
we think, can see the attractiveness of such an idea ; and few 
there are who will not consider it, with all its disadvantages, 
as far less injurious to the formation of a true, manly nature, 
than those excitements which the city presents to the youth- 
ful pleasure-seeker ; or than those quieter and more recon- 
'dite enjoyments through which the fashionable dandy lounges 
away his existence. Hunting fills a large part of the life of 
a Southern planter on the sea-coast, where the deer are still 


to be found in plenty. Along this sea-coast, there are a 
number of islands whose fertile soil has been but partially, 
if at all cultivated. Here over the green savannahs or amid 
the leafy thickets of live-oak, the deer roam as fearlessly as 
if they had never heard the sound of a rifle or the bark of 
a hound ; yet several times in the course of a summer, these 
islands are visited by parties of sportsmen on hunting expe- 
ditions, called "maroons" a name derived, we believe, 
from the buccaneers who formerly frequented these islands. 
"Whatever was its original signification, this word is used 
now to denote a mode of living in which only absolute ne- 
cessaries are provided ; a tent for shelter, a mattress on the 
ground, cooking utensils, plates, dishes and drinking cups, 
their only furniture venison and fish their principal food. 

It is early in September ; no autumnal coolness has yet be- 
gun to temper the heats of summer. For a week they have 
wanted at Montrose Hall the restorative of cooling sea- 
breezes. The wind from the land has blown hot and parch- 
ing through the long brilliant day, and died away in the 
evening, to leave the night in its stillness and closeness more 
intolerable than the day. Donald is at home, and Capt. 
Wharton with him. It was an unexpected visit Capt. Whar- 
ton had been ill. Reckless exposure to an unaccustomed cli- 
mate, in his devotion to his duties, had brought on lingering 
and dangerous disease. Its worst aspect had been removed, 
but he remained debilitated and under the influence of a 
low nervous fever, which threatened to prostrate still lower 
both his mental and physical system. The army-surgeon 
who attended him, having exhausted all other prescriptions, 
ordered change of air. Capt. "Wharton obeyed the order, 
and Donald, full of anxiety for his friend, obtained a short 
leave of absence, that he might accompany him. Donald 
had urged, and Wharton, too weak to resist himself or others, 
had consented to take a route to Virginia, which would bring 


them to Savannah on their way, and to stay for a few days at 
Montrose Hall. The voyage from Tampa Bay had been of 
service to the invalid, and already when he reached Savan- 
nah he was strong enough to make some effort to induce Don- 
ald to visit Montrose Hall without him, and afterwards to 
join him in Virginia, whither he would proceed by slow jour- 
neys. But Donald would not consent to leave him, and as 
he had informed his friends at home of their intended visit, 
Capt. Wharton was not willing to disappoint them. And 
thus, in the late evening of one of those warm September 
days we have endeavored to describe, they found themselves 
once more approaching the Hall. Donald bent forward in 
the open carriage, and drew in long draughts of the home 
air ; while Wharton leaned back faint with an agitation, 
which, till sickness gave him a lesson in human weakness, he 
would have sternly rebuked as unmanly. Suddenly Donald 
too sank back exclaiming, " It would kill me to see Mon- 
trose Hall in the possession of another." 

Capt. Wharton did not answer this ejaculation ; indeed, 
he seemed at the time scarcely to hear it. though some 
months later it recurred to him painfully in connection with 
circumstances then first known. 

The travellers were welcomed joyfully by Col. and Mrs. 
Montrose, and. Mr. Dunbar, who had not seen Donald since 
he left home for West Point, and who retained a very pleas- 
ant recollection of Capt. Wharton's first visit to the Hall. 
Alice had also remained to welcome them, by her uncle's 
desire, but Isabelle with unusual obstinacy persisted in re- 
tiring very early to her room j declaring that it was quite too 
warm to submit to the constraint of sitting up for company- 

" Do you call Donald -company ?" asked Mr. Dunbar. 

" Oh, Donald can come up to my room and see me ; he is 
a great admirer of a demi-toilette." 

" And Capt. Wharton " suggested her mother. 


" Must excuse me for this evening ; you can make any 
apology you please for me. I shall see him to-morrow 
though not very early ; for I am going to ride very early 
with William Clarke, and I may breakfast at Fairhope." 

" If you do you will greatly displease me," said Col. 
Montrose. " It is Donald's first visit for years, and it may be 
years before he comes again ; pray let him not feel that he 
is received with coldness in his home. Take your ride in 
the morning if you will, but be here at breakfast ; perhaps 
Clarke will come with you." 

Isabelle had lit her candle, and was approaching her fa 
ther to receive the good-night kiss, without which she had 
never slept from her babyhood, when he spoke thus. His 
first words had arrested her steps, and as he concluded, she 
turned away without speaking, and with an angry flush upon 
her cheek, 'proceeded very deliberately from the parlor, and 
up-stairs to her own room. There, extinguishing her can- 
dle, she threw open the shutter of a window, and seated her- 
self where she could look out upon the quiet night scene. 
All without was repose, all within was agitation. How lit- 
tle we know of a human soul ! Like some long quiet vol- 
cano, on whose sides flowering shrubs and tall trees have 
grown, and men have built their houses, and dream not of 
the fires smouldering beneath them, till some cause unseen, 
unguessed at by them, kindle those fires into flames, and the 
boiling lava bursts forth, carrying desolation in its track ; 
so, be sure, beneath the smiling countenance and the gen- 
tle voice, and the hand whose soft pressure speaks such 
truth and tenderness, there lie hidden fires, which, should 
they be awakened, would leave but the ashes of those joys 
in which now thy spirit so securely dwells. Some there are, 
whom Divine Love hath so guarded with its heavenly might, 
that those fires have slept undisturbed, unknown, even to 
themselves. Let such be humble in their gratitude, remem 


bering who maketh them to differ. Others, less blessed 
than these, have felt the kindling of the flame, the boiling 
of the lava within, but have had power given them to press 
it down, to give it no outlet, and to make it instead 6"f a 
desolating current, a vivifying principle, a source of strength, 
giving new beauty and a loftier serenity to the life which it 
underlies. Let these not boast thereof; for "not by might, 
nor by power, but by my Spirit," saith the Living God, hath 
the victory been attained. With others, the volcano fires 
never sleep. Scarce has a flower reared its head in the scorch- 
ed and blackened soil of their lives, ere the fire bursts forth 
and it is consumed. Be pitiful to these, oh man ! Be mer- 
ciful, oh God ! 

And now the lava current was boiling up in Isabelle's 
soul. Often has it been thus before, and ignorant where her 
strength lies, deaf to the voice which cries to her from her 
own inmost soul, as well as from the world around, " God is 
our helper," she has met it in her own strength, and combat- 
ing fire with fire, has conquered ; pride ruling over passion 
How shall it be now ? 

Long she sat with eyes fixed on the river, whose current 
broken by an embankment of stones, originally intended as a 
landing-place, but long since separated by the advancing waves 
from the shore, sent its rippling sounds to her but half-con- 
scious ears, while thoughts like these passed through her mind. 

" Are my own family leagued with Captain W barton to 
humiliate me, and embitter my existence, that I am not per- 
mitted even to avoid him? What have I done that my life 
should be thus poisoned at its very source ? Fool ! fool ! 
you believed in man you trusted to his honor to his 

truth you suffered him to see Oh that my heart would 

break ! that now, even now he might hear Isabelle is dead ! 
What is it to him that my eyes are dimmed, and my cheek 
pale, and my heart bitter. These are but so many proofs 


of his power. He may triumph in them without fear of re- 
proach, since my brother brings him here, and my father 
forces me to do him reverence as an honored guest. But 
was it not all my own folly ? Was he to blame ? After all 
he may have meant nothing, he may have suspected nothing ; 
and if I can only preserve my self-possession for these few 
days ] ie w iH not stay long I may retain his respect at 
least. William Clarke will be an invaluable auxiliary. Sure- 
ly it is time they should be here." 

As this last thought passed through her mind, she turned 
to look towards the long avenue leading from the road to 
the house. By some suddenly awakened association awa- 
kened, she herself could not say how her eyes rested a mo- 
ment after on a clump of trees, at some distance from the 
avenue, and farther from the river, amid whose sombre dark- 
ness there was here and there a gleam of white to be dis- 
cerned. This was the family burying-grouud. She had often 
looked at it before, and as none she had known and loved 
were there, it had excited no strong emotion ; nothing but 
that decent gravity with which we regard the last resting 
place of all who have worn the form of man. But now the 
thought that she must one day lie there, arose as she gazed, 
and though in her impatience at the first evil of her life, she 
had just wished for death, this thought chilled her, yet she 
could not banish it. Death and life they had never seemed 
to her so mysteriously blended ; the Hall here, the grave-yard 
there, each a dwelling for the same family ; there were two 
generations of Montroses, to the next belonged her father ; 
she remembered how years had changed him, how his hair 
had grown whiter, his temples more bare, his strong frame 
more bent than it was in her childhood. Were these steps 
toward that last home ? Her heart felt a painful thrill at 
the question, all other griefs seemed unreal when brought in- 
to comparison with this ; tears rushed to her eyes, and yield- 


ing to her impetuous nature she sprang from her seat, 
opened her door, and running down stairs, entered again 
the piazza where she had left her father, advanced to him, 
and passing her arm around his neck as he sat, said in a 
voice unusually low and gentle, " Father, I have come to say 

" (rood-night, my darling ; I am glad you have come 
back, I missed my good night kiss," said the father, as, hav- 
ing kissed her, he laid his hand softly upon the shining tres- 
ses of her dark hair. 

Isabelle's heart swelled within her, and there were tears 
in her voice as she said, " Father, would you rather I should 
stay here to see Donald to-night ?" 

" No, darling, you are flushed with this heat ; I will send 
Donald to you as soon as we can spare him here, and I will 
apologize myself to Captain Wharton for you ; there's ano- 
ther kiss for you ; good-night." 

And Isabelle went with a happier heart, and gentler 
thoughts, back to her room. That casual glance at the 
grave-yard, and its associated train of thought, had done its 
work well. What prompted it ? This was a question Isa- 
belle did not ask, or its answer might have caused her to 
bend her knees in humble gratitude to Him who is the 
source of all good. Isabelle had not yet learned to look 
above the earth for the spring of her actions. 

The sun was just showing its red disk above the eastern 
horizon the next morning, when Isabelle set out for her ride 
with William Clarke. The air was already warm, but the 
dew with which every leaf and flower was gemmed, imparted 
to it a refreshing moisture, while the light breeze which 
fanned the cheeks of the riders bore on its wings the mingled 
odors of the woods. A ride seldom failed to exhilarate Isa- 
belle, but this morning she continued languid and distrait. 
Her listlessness gradually sobered the high spirits of her 


companion, and they rode for many miles in almost unbro- 
ken silence. They were within a mile of Montrose Hall on 
their return, when Isabelle turning with a playful air to her 
companion exclaimed, " What has become of your spirits 
this morning ?" 

" Gone in chase of yours," he answered in the same tone. 

" I fear they will not catch them ; mine have evaporated 
in this heat, and want only a cool breeze to waft them back." 

" I hoped they had returned in company with Donald. 
By the by, is his friend, the gallant Captain, as irresistible 
as ever ?" 

" Irresistible ! to whom ?" asked Isabelle, while her 
cheeks flushed, and her glance fell before the questioning 
eyes directed to her. 

" To young ladies' hearts of course, that is the only object 
of attack to our military men now-a-days. Have you 
forgotten with what & furore of admiration he inspired Alice 
and yourself on his first visit ?" 

" No more than I have forgotten your devotion to mam- 
ma's cousin, Miss Granby, when she visited us a year or two 
before Captain Wharton's advent." 

"William Clarke's merry laugh rang through the woods 
as he answered, " Dear Miss Granby ! what a fine speci- 
men she was of a female grenadier, and how I did adore 

" I will ask mamma to invite her again in the winter for 
your sake, for you know, l on revient toujours a ses premiers 
amours.' " 

" That will be good news for Captain Wharton ; for me, 
Miss Granby was not my premier amour" 

""What a precocious young gentleman you must have 
been !" 

" Rather say, Isabelle, what a constant one I am !" 

The words were light, but there was a color on the cheek. 


a faltering in the tones, a light in the eye of the speaker 
which made Isabelle quicken her pace, exclaiming, " Now 
for a race ; if you win you shall have the whitest curd, and 
the richest cream in maum Peggy's dairy." 

" And if I lose ?" 

' If you lose, you shall acknowledge yourself my prisoner 
for to-day." 

" Only for to-day? What afterwards?" 

" Oh, afterwards I will send you to Miss Granby." 

The race was won by Isabelle of course, but before she 
could dismount, Clarke was by her side to lift her off. 
While Agrippa led their horses away, they entered the house 
together, and proceeded to the breakfast-room, from whose 
windows their arrival had already been seen. Her ride had 
called a bright color into Isabelle's cheeks, now too often pale, 
and with her becoming little riding cap, and closely fitting 
habit, she looked unusually well so thought William Clarke, 
and so thought Capt. Wharton. The latter gentleman rose 
at her entrance, and advanced a step towards her, with a 
heightened color and somewhat less than his usual calm self- 
possession. Isabelle did not meet the advance, but, courte- 
sying where she stood, she civilly expressed her pleasure in 
seeing him, and her regret for his illness, and turned to pre- 
sent her companion, who was still exchanging cordial greet- 
ings with Donald. As Isabelle was leaving the room, to ex- 
change her habit for a cooler dress, she said to Col. Montrose, 
"Mr. Clarke is my prisoner for to-day, papa; I leave him in 
your custody." 

" I will take good care of him," said Col. Montrose good- 

" I fancy he may be trusted to take care of himself, 
papa," Isabelle gayly rejoined, "only see that he does not 

There was something in the words, and more in the 


manner, which caused the hearts of two who heard them 
to throb with powerful emotion the one of pleasure, the 
other of pain. 

"Why, Alice! Where are you going, through this sun?" 
asked Donald Montrose, about an hour later, as he saw Alice 
whose every movement he had watched since his arrival, 
with the hope of securing a private interview stealing away 
through the back-door. 

Coloring, as if detected in some guilty act, Alice an- 
swered, " Hush, Donald ! Do not say any thing about it 
I am only going to the negro houses." 

" Indeed, I shall say a great deal about it, and the first 
thing I shall say is, that you must not go. If any one of 
the people is sick, can you not send a servant to see after 
them, instead of taking this hot walk yourself?" 

" But no one is ill. and a servant cannot do what I am 
going for. I will be back in an hour." 

" Well, according to the Scotch proverb, ' a wilful woman 
maun ha'e her way,' and I suppose you must have yours ; 
but you will not refuse to let me accompany you." 

Had Alice been a woman of the world, she would have 
foreseen this ; but Alice was only a simple girl, who, so far 
from knowing any thing of the world, was ignorant of what 
lay much nearer to her, her own heart. The reader may 
remember that in a conversation with her brother in the pre- 
vious summer, just before his sailing, she had spoken, or at 
least permitted him to speak, of her engagement with Don- 
ald as un fait accompli. She had never even in her own 
mind formally relinquished this view of it ; she had only 
put away all thought of it as much as possible, as of a thing 
that was to be, but of which she need not think at present. 
Perhaps she was able to do this the more readily, by some 
scarce conscious conclusions on the uncertainty of all future 
events, especially when these depended on the constancy of 


young gentlemen exposed to all those fascinations which an 
epaulette rarely fails to develope. For the strength of the 
resistance which her heart now made to Donald's claim, for 
the pang with which she had heard of his expected arrival, 
for the faint sickness which overpowered her as the mo- 
ment she had accustomed herself to regard as at an almost 
interminable distance seemed to have become THE PRESENT, 
for this she was wholly unprepared. 

/ " Alice ! you are ill now," cried Donald, as he saw her 
turn very pale ; " lean on me, dear Alice." But she was al- 
ready resting against one of the pillars of the piazza on 
which they stood ; and she said gently, with the shadow of a 
smile on her pale lips, " It will pass soon ; it must be the 
heat ; and I suppose I had better take your advice, and give 
up my walk this morning." 

" That is my good, gentle Alice, who cannot be a wilful 
woman, even though she should try for it. Now come into 
the study, we shall have that all to ourselves, and you shall 
rest on the sofa while I tell you a long story about myself. 
But you are faint again, Alice, are you really ill?" 

" Oh no : this will soon pass over, but I believe you 
must let me go to my room for a while." 

G-ently as she spoke, Donald was irritated ; a frown ga- 
thered on his brow as he exclaimed, " Are you determined 
not to hear me, Alice ?" 

" Do not be angry with me, Donald," she said, depreca- 
tingly. " I will be better by-and-by, and then I will do I 
mean I will try to do all you wish." 

Guarded as was this promise, she almost repented the 
next moment having said so much, when she caught the ex- 
pression of joyful triumph flashing from Donald's eyes, and 
heard the impassioned thanks he uttered, as he pressed her 
hands in his, and raised first one and then the other to his lips. 
At length her looks, rather than her words, prevailed on him 


to suffer her to leave him, and slowly ascending the stairs, she 
entered her room, and throwing herself upon the bed, hid 
her face in the pillows. 

Poor Alice ! She was as little formed to contend with 
the selfish passions of others as a reed to resist the storms 
that lay it prostrate. Strength she had, but it was the 
strength of a woman strength to endure and to sacrifice 
not to contend and conquetf Had the happiness of another 
been in her keeping, Alice would have had strength to resist 
all that could touch it, but to prefer her own happiness to 
that of Donald and her uncle this she could not do. How 
often had she prayed for his life during his illness at New- 
port, with the firm resolve to do all that in her lay to make 
that life happy, should her prayer be granted ! Had she not, 
indeed, in some manner, pledged herself to his father, and 
to her own mother and brother to do this ? Nay, was there 
not a time when she believed herself becoming reconciled to 
this anticipation, when she could even regard it with a cer- 
tain degree of satisfaction, as the source of happiness to 
many whom she loved ? Why was it, then, that her whole 
soul now rose up in protest against it ? 

" Things look so differently, near, and at a distance," 
she murmured ; yet, even as she did, she felt that this was 
not all the truth. 

We will not strive, however, to look beneath the veil 
with which she has covered her heart, even from herself. 
We will endeavor to believe her as she whispers to herself, 
that her nature is too passionless to respond to an affection 
ardent as Donald's, and we are ready to acknowledge with 
her, that there is enough of sorrow to a generous heart, in 
finding itself thus compelled ever to receive what it can never 
hope to return. It is sufficient for our purpose that we give 
the result of her self-communings, which was the following 
note to Donald, written after many attempts to express her- 


self in a manner which should appear at once kind to him 
and true to herself. 

" I cannot rest, dear Donald, under the memory of your 
reproachful looks ; and then, my uncle can I bear to see 
regret in his eyes, and to think that I am the cause ? 
What would I not do to make you both happy ! But, 
Donald, you must have patience with me you must remem- 
ber it is not an easy thing to unlearn the lessons of many 
years, almost of my whole life, which had taught me to 
love you exactly as I loved Charles. Perhaps you may 
wish to remind me, that it is more than a year since I gave 
you some reason to believe that I would endeavor to regard 
you as you wished. This is true; but, as you did not speak 
on the subject when we next met, I hoped you had gone 
back to the good old brotherly affection, and forgotten all 
later wishes. Since this is not so, only give me time, and I 
will endeavor to become all you desire. We are very young, 
Donald ; it seems but yesterday that we were children : in 
two years I shall be but nineteen, and you but twenty-four ; 
we shall better understand ourselves then, and if you still 
preserve your present feelings, and speak to me of them 
then, I will endeavor to give you such an answer as your 
generous affection deserves. 

" I shall show this note to my mother, who will hand it 
to you, if she approve of its contents. You can tell my 
uncle and aunt, and Isabelle, what I have proposed. Then, 
if you please, dear Donald, we will not speak on this subject 
till the two years are at an end. Till then, think of me 
kindly. ALICE. 

" P. S. Should your own feelings change in these two 
years should you see another whom you could love better 
than your cousin Alice, hesitate not, dear Donald, to tell 
me. As your happiness will be the chief object of my life, 
I should be miserable indeed to find myself a barrier to it." 


This note was enclosed by Alice in one to her mother, 
requesting her to read it, and to hand it to Donald, if she 
did not think it wrong in her to send it. To Mrs. Charles 
Montrose it seemed a very discreet, sensible letter far more 
discreet and sensible, she was ready to acknowledge, than 
she could have written to the father of Alice. Donald was 
less sensible of its merits. He said, and not unjustly, that 
it was cold as ice. It first excited his anger, and then his 
sorrow sorrow deeper for the hopes which his father had 
kindled, and which Alice had herself fed in their first inter- 
views after his illness interviews occurring at Newport, 
while he was stiil too feeble to leave the house, and while 
the memory of his late danger and the impress he still bore 
of suffering, called forth all the tenderness of his friends, and 
especially of Alice, who, remembering his threats, had suf- 
fered from bitter, though most undeserved, self-reproach, 
during his illness. He would have sought an immediate 
interview with her, on reading her note, but, on applying to 
her mother for this purpose, he learned that she was still too 
much indisposed to rise. He must speak to some one, and, 
as his father had already been in his confidence on this sub- 
ject, he sought him, and found him writing a letter in the 
room called the study. 

" Read that, sir, and tell me what I shall do," Donald 
exclaimed, flinging down the letter of Alice on the table, 
with manifest discomposure. 

" What you shall do ?" said Col. Montrose, after reading 
it. " Why, do as Alice has told you, to be sure. I think 
her proposal the very wisest possible for both of you. I had 
no idea the child had so much prudence." 

" I would be better pleased with less prudence and more 
heart," subjoined Donald, in a sulky tone. 

" More heart !" and Col. Montrose colored with indigna- 
tion. " Where will you find another with half so much ? 


From the time she laid her head against my bosom, sob- 
bing at the memory of her father, to the present moment, 
in every action of her life, the heart has been her manifest 

" Then it is very evident that her heart is not in my 

" What would you have given a year ago, Donald, to 
know that, in three years, Alice would assuredly be yours ?" 

' ; Every thing I possessed, or hoped to possess," he re- 
plied, with emphasis. 

" And now you have that assurance ; be satisfied." 

" Even Alice, without a heart, cannot satisfy me. Only 
see in what a cold, business-like style that letter is written." 

" Did you expect Alice, in opening a correspondence 
with you, to make love-speeches ?" 

" No ; but I would rather have seen that there was suffi- 
cient love in her heart to make her afraid to open a corre- 
spondence with me. The consciousness of love makes a 
woman timid." 

" And Alice is too bold is she ? I will advise her to 
be more reserved." 

" Heaven knows you need not, when she positively for- 
bids me to speak to her at all on the subject of my love." 

" Donald, you are as unreasonable as as a lover. I 
have no doubt you have frightened the child by your impet- 
uosity, and, fearing that with her own heart on your side, 
she will never be able to withstand you, if she hears you 
plead, she writes to propose to you what the age of both 
makes a most wise arrangement. Could you expect that in 
such a letter she would be lavish of professions of attach- 
ment ?" 

" Certainly not, but she carefully avoids even her usual 
expressions of kindness." 

"Would you rather continue her brother, Donald, to 


whom she might give pet names and even caresses without 
apprehension ?" 

" No" 

" Then be satisfied with your new character." 

" But surely I may be permitted to speak to Alice to 
thank her for her promise to put our intercourse for these 
two years on a less icy basis than she has done here. Why, 
she does not even give me permission to answer her letter." 

" Oh ! that I think you may venture to do without for- 
mal permission. Only try to be a little reasonable in your 
demands on Alice, and calm your impetuosity sufficiently 
not to frighten her when you find an occasion to plead your 
cause, and the course of your true love is likely, I think, to 
run smooth enough, in spite of Shakspeare." 

Alice did not appear at dinner. Her mother said she 
seemed to be asleep, and, as she had been suffering from 
headache, she would not disturb her. In m the afternoon she 
received the following note from Donald. 

u Let me see you, Alice my Alice if only for a few 
minutes, this evening, if it be possible without suffering to 
you. This letter is so cold but I will not complain. Com- 
plain, did I say ? I want all my words all my life to 
thank to bless you, Alice. In this one thing only must I 
disobey you ; I must speak of my obligations to you two 
years of silence would kill me. But do not fear me ; I will 
curb my impetuous nature, I will be gentle as yourself, and 
I will ask nothing of you but to hear me, and sometimes to 
let me hear your promise from your own lips. For this 
evening, my Alice, I only ask to see you. You will not 
surely deny so small a favor to 

Yours, with devoted affection, 


Alice sat long with this note in her hand, gazing upon its 
lines through the mist of "unshed tears" Then she rose, 
laid it aside, and prepared to go down-stairs, dressing with 
even more than her usual simplicity. As she entered the 
piazza, on which all the family was collected, just before the 
tea-hour, her spotless muslin dress flowing in soft, graceful 
folds about her round, yet slender form ; the loose sleeve 
edged with a narrow lace, falling not far below the elbow, 
showing the waxen fairness and smoothness of the arm just 
where it tapered to the small wrist and delicately-moulded 
hand ; the white throat rising gracefully from the lace edging 
which finished her dress at the neck, the rich ringlets of her 
glossy brown hair drawn back from the beautifully-rounded 
cheek, and fastened in the comb which confined her hair at 
the back of her head, the pink of those cheeks a shade paler 
than usual, and the soft brown eyes just meeting for a mo- 
ment the welcoming glances of her friends, and then veiling 
themselves behind the curtain of their long, dark lashes; an 
artist could have asked no fairer personification of his ideal 
of a youthful religieuse, in all her vestal purity, unsullied 
by earthly passion, turning from " the pomps and vanities of 
this wicked world," and consecrating herself to the service 
of Heaven. Donald placed a chair for her next his own, 
and, far from avoiding him, as she had done hitherto since 
his arrival, she accepted it, and met every attention he prof- 
fered to her in a manner which more than fulfilled his hopes. 
It is true, she was very grave, but it was a gravity so gentle 
that he would scarcely have been willing to exchange it for 
a gayer mood. It is strange that, while not only Donald 
and his family, but even her own mother, saw in Alice no- 
thing to regret nothing that militated against their wishes, 
Mr. Dunbar perhaps because he had no wish so strong as 
for her happiness was painfully impressed by her appear- 
ance and manner this evening. He often referred to it in 


after years, saying that it seemed as if she had passed in a 
few hours from the impulsive life of the child into that of 
the thoughtful, earnest woman, prepared to bear with sweet 
submissiveness sorrows which she knew were unavoidable. 
Nor was this a passing mood with Alice ; it continued un- 
changed during the remainder of Donald's visit, leaving him, 
at the moment of parting, nothing of which to complain, ex- 
cept that she would not shorten the interval of two years 
between the present time and that at which he would be 
privileged to claim the fulfilment of her promise. In the 
mean time, she readily consented to correspond with him. 

Capt. Wharton made but slow advances towards health 
while at Montrose Hall. His nights were restless, and lan- 
guor and feebleness confined him for most of the day to his 
own apartment. When he was able to appear among his 
friends, they all vied in efforts to amuse and interest him, 
except Isabelle ; who always appeared at such times partic- 
ularly absorbed with William Clarke if he was present, or, if 
he was absent, with her embroidery or a book. 

Thus the week wore away, which had been allotted to the 
visit of the young officers ; the morning of the last day had 
arrived, and they were at breakfast, when the boy who 
had been sent to the nearest post town for letters arrived. 
Every face except Capt. Wharton's and Isabelle's brighten- 
ed with expectation. Some were doomed to disappointment. 
" No letter from Charles !" cried Mrs. Charles Montrose ; 
and Alice, " He was never before away so long without our 
hearing from him." 

Donald received a letter which had been forwarded from 
Tampa Bay, but it apparently brought him little plea- 
sure. He glanced at the address with surprise, opened it 
hastily, read it with a frowning brow, and having refolded 
it and thrust it into his pocket, sat for some minutes in 
gloomy silence ; and then pushing his chair from the table, 


was leaving his breakfast untasted ; when his father laid his 
hand upon his shoulder and pressing him back into his seat, 
said in a low tone, " You have bad news is it of Charles ?" 

" Of Charles !" repeated Donald with surprise. " No. sir, 
what would make you think so ?" 

" Hush ! I will tell you after breakfast . Here, John, 
give Mr. Donald and me another cup of coffee ; ours has 
grown cold while we have been talking politics. My dear 
sister, you must remember it is a long voyage to the Pacific, 
and there is no regular post on the high seas." 

Mrs. Charles tried to smile, but tears came instead ; and 
after a moment's struggle to repress them, she rose and left 
the room, followed by Alice, who paused for a moment at her 
uncle's side, to place her hand in his and say, " Uncle, you 
are not uneasy about Charles ?" 

" I am much more uneasy about you and your mother ;" 
then as Alice turned away with a brightened face, waiting 
only for her to get beyond the reach of his voice, he added, 
" That is true, for if poor Charles is gone, it has been by one 
short sudden pang, and their hearts may be years in break- 

" But what reason have you to fear for Charles ?" asked 

"Read this," said Col. Montrose, as he placed in his 
hand a newspaper, now three weeks old, and pointed to the 
following paragraph under the head of naval news. 

" Serious fears are entertained for the safety af the brig 
Enterprise, which sailed from Boston about a year ago, 
bound for the Pacific. She was to have stopped at Rio on 
her outward passage, but she has not been heard of at that 
port, as we learn from vessels just arrived." 

" How long have you had this ?" asked Donald. 

" More than a fortnight, and it has never left my pocket 
before. I wrote the very day I received it to Washington, 


inquiring if any more certain intelligence had been received 
at the Department, and there is my answer. You see they 
have heard nothing ; but hush ! here comes Isabelle ; sho 
loved Charles too well to conceal her anxiety from her aunt 
and Alice, if she should hear any thing of our fears." 

As Isabelle entered from her accustomed morning ride, 
each tried to greet her cheerfully, yet there was a shadow 
on their brows which her quick eye perceived. She would 
have questioned her father or brother, but they rose from ta- 
ble and left the room together ; she glanced at Capt. Wharton, 
and met, for a single instant, a look so full of compassion- 
ate tenderness, that she turned away with a heightened color, 
and a mind forgetful of every other cause of discomposure. 

" I want to speak to you. Donald," said Col. Montrose as 
he left the breakfasting-room, and proceeded to his study, 
followed by Donald. 

The father and son entered, and seated themselves over 
against each other. Both were grave. 

" Donald," said the Colonel then paused a moment 
then resumed " My son !" 

Donald looked up ; his father's eyes were fixed upon an 
open window, Donald's followed the same direction, and rest- 
ed upon the family burial-place. His heart swelled. 

" What is it, father ?" he asked. 

" Donald, you are going away to-day, and there are some 
things which I ought to say to you before we part ; some 
things connected with business." 

" But, father, I shall see you again on my way back to 
Tampa Bay ; will not that be time enough ?" 

" Perhaps not, Donald, at any rate it will do no harm to 
say it now ; it may do much to leave it unsaid. Much of 
what I am going to say to you, will make part of the will 
which I shall make Symonds draw up for me, as soon as he 
returns from the up-country." 


" Then why trouble yourself to speak of it to me, fa- 

* { Why, my dear boy," said Col. Montrose, resting his 
hand on Donald's shoulder, and smiling affectionately upon 
him, "you are not superstitious, are you? a little of it runs 
in our blood, I know ; but not enough, I hope, to make you 
unwilling to listen to me. Soon after your uncle Charles's 
sudden death I made a will, which I destroyed only a few 
days ago, when Alice gave us reason to hope that she would 
one day be your wife. I shall make another, as I just now 
told you, when Symonds returns ; but in the mean time, as 
we never know what may happen, I should like you to know 
what I wish done with what I leave behind." 

" Well, father, your wishes shall be sacred, though I am 
sure I hope " he stopped ; his voice was choked. 

" That I shall never die hey, Donald?" and the old man 
laughed. " I dare say you do, my son ; you have never 
thought of the value of a post-obit " 

Donald could scarcely keep his seat, but his father did 
not see his agitation ; for he had risen to unlock a desk and 
take out a paper. Returning with it to his seat he resumed. 

" You will find a little memorandum here of my proper- 
ty and of my debts. The largest of these was incurred by 
the purchase of the river lands I bought last. I bought at 
a bad time ; cotton has fallen since. I could not sell them 
now for half I gave, but they are very good lands, and will 
soon pay for themselves when brought under thorough cul- 
tivation. Two or three good crops well sold will pay off all 
I owe. I hope to be able to leave my children free of all 
debt. This place I shall leave to you; if your mother 
should prefer to live here, you will of course give it up to 
her during her life ; but it was my father's wish, and has al- 
ways been mine, that none but a Montrose should ever call 
the old Hall his." 


There was another twinge at Donald's heart, as he press- 
ed his hand convulsively against the pocket containing the 
letter this morning received. 

" Father," he said, - : had you not better leave the Hall 
to my mother for her life, and to me afterwards, if I survive 

" No, no, your mother is not a Montrose ; she under- 
stands me and thinks as I do. She will have the third part 
of all my property, and with the exception of the Hall, I 
wish her to select her portion both of lands and negroes. 
The remainder will be divided between Isabel! e and your- 
self. But what I particularly wished to say to you is, that 
I shall burden my estate with a legacy of ten thousand dol- 
lars, to be divided between your aunt and Charles. In my 
former will, I left Alice ten thousand dollars, and Charles 
five, and your aunt only a thousand dollars, as a testimony 
of my regard ; but now I consider Alice to be provided for 
in her marriage with you, and I think both you and she 
would prefer that her mother should not be quite dependent 
upon you. Would you not prefer this ?" 

" Certainly, father ; but " he hesitated. 

" Speak freely, my son ; it is because I want your opin- 
ion that I speak thus to you." 

" I was going to say that I would rather Alice should 
not be left wholly dependent on nie ; if any thing should hap- 
pen ; if I if she " 

" You are a generous fellow, Donald ;" cried the pleased 
father, " and have the old blood warm at your heart. I see 
what you mean ; you do not wish that Alice should have 
any bond upon her freedom of choice, but that of her own 
affection ; you need not be afraid, she thinks as little I sus- 
pect of dollars and cents as you do. However, it shall be 
as you say, only instead of being taken as my other legacies 
will be. from my undivided estate, it must be paid by you 


from that portion which shall fall to your own share. Will 
this suit you ?" 

Donald, though hardly satisfied, knew not how to object. 

" There is one other thing, Donald," commenced Col. 
Montrose after a moment's silence. " I want old Cato to 
have his freedom after my death ; give him a piece of land, 
build him a small house, and let him live here where he can 
have his wife and children with him, and can be taken care 
of in illness and old age." 

" Father, this at least you may put out of the power of 
chance ; you can free Cato now, or at least, you can write at 
once and have properly attested, what will secure his free- 
dom at your death." 

' But what's the use ; you know my wish on the subject, 
and so does your mother " 

" Something might happen to us : put it out of the pow- 
er of chance or fate." 

Donald was very earnest his father smiled and prom- 

" And now, Donald, one thing more, and I have done. 
Should you marry Alice, as I hope you will, remember 
that her whole happiness will be in your keeping. Be ten- 
der to her. my son, and always, always, Donald, prefer her 
happiness to your own promise me this." 

" I do, father ; I do promise it," said Donald as he held 
his hand out to his father, who grasped it in his and continu- 
edto hold it, as he added, " and my Isabelle, Donald, you 
will be her protector when I am gone ; but you must be 
gentle with her, you must not assume any authority over her, 
she will do any thing for love, nothing for command ; for 
she has a proud spirit, and I am afraid is a little spoiled, as 
well as yourself. But, spoiled child as you may have been, 
my dear boy. I know I may trust you to do all I wish kind- 
ly and honorably." 


" Oh, father ! I cannot bear to hear you speak thus, I do 
not deserve your confidence." 

" Well, well ; under the influence of a dear, good wife, 
like Alice, you will grow better, I dare say. She has made 
me think more seriously of some things than I ever thought 
before ; I only wish the thought had come earlier. But it 
is time to see where your friend is." 

When the friends took their departure the sun was near 
its setting. By travelling for one or two hours after night, 
they would arrive in Savannah without encountering its ex- 
cessive heat. From that port they were to sail the next day 
in a brig for Norfolk. The grave conversation of the morn- 
ing, or perhaps somewhat of that superstitious feeling of 
which he had accused his son, cast a shadow at parting over 
the usually cheerful countenance of Col. Montrose. His 
" good-bye, Donald God bless you, my son," were spoken 
with a fervor which sent a thrill to the heart of all who 
heard him ; except perhaps of our friend Agrippa, who was 
absorbed in the pleased contemplation of two bright silver 
dollars just dropped into his hand by his young master, and 
of a bank-bill, whose value he did not so well understand, 
received from Capt. Wharton, to whom he had occasionally 
played the part of nurse. 



' The warld's wealth, when I think on 
Its pride and a 1 the lave o't ; 
Fie, fie on silly, coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't" 

IN the commencement of this history we introduced to the 
notice of the reader the family of an opulent merchant, of 
Boston, in the enjoyment of that wealth and social position 
which was the result of his well-directed labors. Slight as 
was the glance we gave of them, and seldom as we have re- 
curred to them, we think it has been sufficiently evident that 
wealth, and the glittering appendages of wealth, were their 
chief objects of desire. Mr. Browne was a prominent man 
in the vestry of the church to which he belonged, his contri- 
butions to its support were always respectable, more than 
respectable when that contribution was made in the form 
of a subscription, the name of the donor being given in fullj 
but the half-starved beggar at his door, the man of business 
whose misfortune or whose want of judgment had reduced 
ibis family to want, found not one weak spot in his heart, by 
which he might be tempted to encourage mendicity, or to 
interfere between his brother man and the wise Providence, 
by which, as Mr. Browne was accustomed to say, the" conse- 
quences of our acts were meted out to us with unerring faith- 
fulness, even in this life an opinion which is, we believe, 


generally prevalent with those who have had much success in 

Did this man, it may be asked, never hear a still, small 
voice, asking, " He that loveth not his brother, whom he 
hath seen, how can he love God, whom he hath not seen?" 
or did he never, in some hour " to sober contemplation 
given." see the look of sorrow once turned upon a young 
ruler, who, having much possessions and a fair reputation in 
the world, had been told, nevertheless, li Yet one thing thou 
lackest 1 ?" We know not, but if he had, the world had soon 
drowned the voice and veiled the look. 

The master mind of his family, Mr. Browne had im- 
pressed his own views upon them all. These views, too, had 
had their legitimate effect on all, in indurating their hearts, 
degrading their aspirations, and presenting to them life in 
its most superficial aspects. As respects the female part 
of the family, thanks to those social laws which fence 
the daughter of wealth from all strong temptation to 
evil conduct, the mischief stopped here 5 but we have 
already seen that it was not so with the son. The steady, 
plodding, industrious habits which had been formed while 
toiling his way to wealth, had preserved Mr. Browne, even 
in the heyday of youth, from yielding to any of those im- 
pulses by which he might have been led beyond the bounds 
of strict propriety. Such habits had stood him in the stead 
of the nobler restraints of principle, and good reason had 
he had he but known it to be thankful for his early pov- 
erty. No such seemingly harsh and truly friendly restraints 
had been laid upon George Browne, and no nobler principle 
had held the rein over him. The immortal soul within us, 
whether we feed it with the husks of earth, or the ambrosia 
of the gods, craves ever more of that nourishment to which 
it becomes gradually assimilated. The wealth and the lux- 
ury, which was the terminus of the father's ambition, was 


but the starting point of the son's. That for which the 
father had toiled, the son expected to receive without labor, 
and when his father's purse was closed to him. he helped 
himself, without remorse, to the purses of others, not by put- 
ting his fingers in their pockets that would have been danger' 
ous but by exacting tribute from their vices for the support 
of his own. Of the harvest thus to be obtained, the present 
summer had not been so productive as the past ; it is not 
often that a dupe is found at once so wealthy and so credu- 
lous as Donald ; and, as the autumn approached, George 
Browne found himself compelled to curtail his pleasures, or 
to draw for their support upon their last year's victim. 

The reader has, doubtless, been as much surprised as 
Donald himself was, by the proposal that his debt to Browne 
should be liquidated by notes payable at the uncertain pe- 
riod of his father's death a period which the giant frame 
and hitherto unbroken health of Col. Montrose seemed to 
place at a very distant date. But a moment's reflection will 
show good reason for an arrangement which Browne would 
not have thought of proposing to one in the least degree 
more worldly-wise than Donald. By such an arrangement, he 
broke down all those defences with which the apprehension of 
dimculty might have surrounded one who had been accus- 
tomed, he saw, to fulfil to the letter one scriptural injunc- 
tion that of letting " to-morrow provide for the things of 
itself." Another advantage gained was, that he avoided all 
examination of his accounts by shrewder heads than Donald's, 
while the circumstances on which his claims were based were 
so recent as to make it possible that the errors into which 
he had fallen might be corrected. Then, the character of 
the security given was made a reason for demanding a usu- 
rious profit, and, last of all, and most important in his es- 
teem, was the conviction that, with Donald's love for his 
father, and with the dread of his haughty mother's con- 


tempt, which Browne had early divined, this obligation 
would become, in skilful hands, an instrument of torture, by 
which all he could command might be wrung from him, 
whenever it was applied. The summer's ill success, of which 
we have spoken, compelled Browne to make the application 
rather earlier than he at first intended. The letter received 
by Donald on the morning of his last day at home, was from 
Browne, and brought the pleasant information conveyed in 
language peculiar, we believe, to gentlemen of his habits 
that he was " hard up," and must be indebted to him for an 
advance of a thousand dollars on his notes. There was 
something in the tone of this communication which was as 
displeasing to Donald as its contents. The bland courte- 
sies, the gentle flatteries, with which Browne had hitherto 
seasoned his addresses, were wanting ; it was the free, bold 
and somewhat coarse demand of a creditor, who knew that 
his debtor could not evade him. And how was he to reply 
to this demand? He had promised his father that he 
should not again be called upon for a gaming debt. And 
for his pay he could not spare a dollar of it. It is true, 
there were men in the same company with himself who were 
said to save money, but these were Yankees, and had been 
brought up to save 5 nobody expected them to do what a 
Southern gentleman did : to be sure, there was Wharton 

" By the by, Wharton," he continued, thinking aloud, " I 
heard you say the other day you were never in debt 5 may I 
ask if you lived on your pay when you entered the army as 
a lieutenant ?" 

" You may ask, and I will answer I did." 

" And did not run in debt ? I cannot see How you 
managed it." 

" I will tell you ; I never bought any thing till I had the 
money in hand to pay for it ; and I kept a regular account 
of my receipts and expenditures, that I might never be 
betrayed into expenses beyond my means." 


" Kept an account ! One might as well be a merchant 
at once." 

" Better be a merchant than a slave." 

" A slave ! I do not understand you ;" and yet the 
angry blood rose to Donald's brow, as if he suspected some 
personal application of the word. 

" I mean that a debtor is the slave of his creditor ; held 
in a bondage harder than that of our friend A^rippa. I 
hope you will never know this by experience, Donald ; take 
my word for it, and keep out of debt." 

" It is somewhat late for that advice to me now, and, to 
tell you the truth, Wharton, I suspect you are the only 
gentleman south of Mason and Dixon's line, who could, with 
any propriety, give it." 

Wharton was silent for some minutes, and when he spoke 
again, it was in a more earnest tone than he had hitherto 
used in the conversation. 

" Donald," he said, " if I take a little of the Mentor's 
tone to you, excuse it for the sake of my friendship for you, 
and my eight years' greater experience of life. I have often 
heard you speak of a Southern gentleman, as if men, like 
plants, changed their qualities with the climate. Now, it 
seems to me that the GENTLEMAN is the same every where, 
in fundamental qualities, though he may differ in the cut of 
his clothes, in the language he speaks, or in any of those 
things which are the result of social prescription, rather than 
the spontaneous expression of the man. North or South, in 
Europe or America, the gentleman is still unchanged." 

" I should like to hear your definition of a gentleman." 

" There was a definition given something more than 
eighteen hundred years ago, which I cannot hope to sur- 

" I do not know to what you allude." 

" Do you remember such injunctions as to ' have no fear 


of man,' to ' fear God,' and to l love our neighbor ?' Now I 
think that he who should give to these injunctions their ap- 
propriate expression, in word and manner, would be a finished 

" Surely you do not mean, W barton, that the best men 
are the most complete gentlemen." 

" No ^because the best men are imperfect. A man may 
fear God and love his neighbor, and yet retain so much fear 
of man that he may give no true expression to his feelings, 
or may render himself ridiculous by attempting to conform 
to conventionalisms to which he has not been accustomed. 
What makes a man pass current in society as a gentleman ? 
Is it not that he has been trained to show fearlessness to 
the strong, courtesy to the weak courtesy which is the out- 
ward expression of kindliness, of love ?" 

"Well, you make out two of your principles as undeni- 
ably essential to a gentleman ' fear no man' and ' love your 
neighbor ;' but I do not see the necessity for your third ; 
how do you prove it ?" 

" It is necessary, because no spirit can be truly elevated 
above all fear of man, which has not strengthened itself by 
dependence upon the power of God, and none can contem- 
plate that power without reverential awe." 

Capt. Wharton spoke with solemnity, and, perhaps un- 
consciously to himself, raised his hat from his head as he 
concluded, as if he were under the influence of the senti- 
ment he described. Perhaps Donald, too, felt something of 
this influence, for he was long silent ; at length, he said, 
" This was a strange digression from the subject of debt." 

"Not so strange or so distant a digression as it may seem 
to you. I hold that no debtor can truly fulfil the precept, 
' Fear no man ;' he must and will fear his creditor." 

" Then, according to you, no debtor can be truly a gen- 



" That is pushing my text to an extreme inference ; I 
would rather say, no true gentleman is willingly a debtor." 

" I will readily agree with you there." 

" Then, Donald. I may venture to urge you not to remain 
in debt ; your father, I am sure, would rather 

" I cannot speak to my father on this subject." 

" Then, Donald, allow me to claim the privilege of a 
friend ; I have not only lived on my pay, but have four or 
five hundred dollars put away, which I do not want " 

" Thank you, thank you, Wharton. If I need your 
help, I will come to you as I would to my brother." 

Wharton answered only by clasping Donald's hand in 
his for a moment ; there was something in that last word 
which checked his speech, and sent his thoughts in another 

Two days' easy travel from Norfolk brought the friends 
to the Virginia Springs, where some of Capt. Wharton's 
early friends had made an arrangement to meet him. In 
their care Donald left him, to proceed to Boston, promising 
to return, if the business which carried him North should 
leave sufficient time at his command, before the expiration 
of his furlough. 

The summer heats, so oppressive in Donald's Southern 
home, had only served to bring out into fuller and fresher 
life the beauty of the Northern landscape ; but it gave him 
little enjoyment. In wooded slope, and verdant meadow, 
and ripening field, he saw only his nearer approach to that 
interview, by which it was to be determined whether he 
should ever again stand within his home with the glad free 
spirit of his boyhood. 

" I have been a fool to trust to a man with Yankee 
blood in his veins, as I have done to Browne. When I paid 
that thousand dollars I ought to have ascertained what was 
still due to him ; but I was so pleased by the assurance that 


the rest could be managed without calling on my father, that 
I took every thing else I wished for granted. Managed with- 
out calling on my father ! I should like to know how. I 
would relinquish every thing I ever hope to own, if, by 
doing so, I could keep this whole affair from my mother. 
The very thought of meeting her proud, cold eye, is mad- 
ness. And Alice but she will have little reason to com- 
plain, for I 'believe, on my soul, if she had only given me, a 
year ago, the hope she has done now, this would never have 

And Donald found some relief from the unaccustom- 
ed burden of self-condemnation, by throwing a part of the 
blame of his own ill doings on Alice ; and this part in- 
creased as he dwelt on it, until he became in his own eyes 
" more sinned against than sinning ;" an unfortunate, and 
very ill-used person. 

But Donald did not linger on his way, and neither will 
we. He arrived in Boston late in the evening, too late to 
see Browne that night ; but the following morning, break- 
fasting two hours earlier than was his custom, when not on 
duty, he sallied out in search of him. Inquiring at his fa- 
ther's house, he was directed to the hotel at which he resid- 
ed ; and going immediately thither, found him just as he 
was leaving the house. A nice observer might have detect- 
ed something of triumph mingling with surprise, in Browne's 
reception of his unlooked-for guest. 

" I thought you were at Tampa Bay," he said, " and sent 
a letter there to you two months ago." 

" Which was forwarded, and received by me only a fort- 
night since. My absence will account for your not receiv- 
ing a reply sooner." 

" It was deucedly unlucky that you should have been 
absent ; I am really very sorry for it very sorry indeed." 

" For what ? for the delay in your reception of the money 


you demanded ? I am riot sure that I could have done any 
thing for you at present, if I had received your letter sooner." 

" No, no ; I did not mean that exactly ; but the truth is, 
Montrose. I have been completely used up : or, what is worse, 
my purse has been. The old man's heart was as hard as a 
nether mill-stone. I must have left Boston more hastily 
than pleasantly, if I had not thought of asking him for a loan 
on good security and prime interest. The bait took and he 
has your notes." 

" Do you mean to say," cried Donald, with a flushed brow 
and a voice in which rage was blended with dismay, " that 
all the papers which passed between us are in your father's 
hands ?" 

" Every one ; post-obits and all." 

" Then you are a blacker villain than even I thought you ; 
but I might have known it when I trusted myself to one of 
your mean race." 

" And I, Lieut. Montrose, knew too well what the pros- 
pect was of getting money from a large-talking little-doing 
Southerner, not to get rid of your notes as soon as I could, 
even at half their nominal value." 

Donald stepped forward with his cane uplifted, but the 
next moment he drew back, saying, " Villain as you are, I 
will treat you as a gentleman for the sake of your relation- 
ship to Alice ; you shall hear from me through a friend " 

" Another version of a new way to pay old debts, I pre- 
sume ; but if so, you had better send your challenge to my 
father \ though I fear he will hardly accept payment in lead 
instead of gold. For myself, I am sorry I cannot gratify 
you, being on the eve of leaving Boston. I am at present 
particularly engaged, and must bid you a very good morn- 

The last words were said with a profound bow, and an 
expression of gratified malice, which would probably have 


overcome Donald's generous intentions towards the relation 
of Alice, had he not been restrained by the presence of la- 
dies, who had entered while Browne was speaking. As it 
was, he followed rapidly his retreating steps, but when he 
reached the hall, he was nowhere to be seen ; and the ser- 
vants to whom he applied, to know in what direction he had 
gone, declared that he had left the house, though for what 
place they knew not. 

Exasperated beyond all sober thought, Donald followed, 
and walked with hasty steps up one street and down another, 
pursuing gentlemen, who, when they were overtaken, proved 
not to have the slightest resemblance to George Browne, till 
he was thoroughly heated in body and somewhat cooled in 
mind. Then came the reflection that his most important busi- 
ness was now with the father, to whom a duel with the son 
would be scarcely the best recommendation. Before this 
thought occurred to him, he was in a part of the city with which 
he was quite unacquainted, and when he would have retraced 
his steps, he found himself so embarrassed with many wind- 
ings and turnings, that it was more than an hour, ere with 
the help of occasional direction from those he passed, he 
was able to make his way to the lordly mansion of the 
Brownes in Beacon Street. 

"Is Mr. Browne at home?" asked Donald of the porter 
who had come evidently in haste, to answer his somewhat 
impetuous pull at the bell handle. 

" Yes, sir." 

"Where is he?" 

" In the study : but, sir if you please, sir, Mr. Browne 
is engaged : I will take your name in, sir." 

And all this time the servant was retreating before the ad- 
vancing strides of Donald, who, fancying that George Browne 
was in some way at the bottom of the evident reluctance 
to admit him, felt all his ire reviving. Putting the servant 


forcibly aside as he reached the door, he turned the latch 
and threw it open. Opposite to it Mr. Browne and another 
gentleman, whose back was towards the door, were seated at 
a table covered with account-books and papers. Mr. Browne, 
without noticing Donald, who stood directly between him and 
the servant, looked up with a stern expression at the latter, 
exclaiming, " What is the meaning of this, John ? Did I 
not tell you I was particularly engaged this morning ?" 

" If I have intruded, Mr. Browne," said Donald, " your 
servant is not to blame ; he endeavored to stop me, but I 
leave Boston to-morrow, and I must see you therefore to- 
day. Appoint any other hour and I will not intrude upon 
you now." 

" I do not know that I shall have any hour disengaged 
to-day, Mr. Montrose," said Mr. Browne, coldly and with- 
out rising; but no sooner had he uttered the name Mon- 
trose than the other gentleman turned quickly, and Donald 
saw that it was Robert Grahame, who, springing from his 
seat, advanced to meet him with outstretched hand and the 
most friendly greeting. 

" I thought I knew the voice " he said, " as soon as you 
spoke, and yet it seemed impossible ; so I forced myself to be 
quiet, till Mr. Browne named you. When did you come, and 
where are you going, that you must leave Boston so soon ?" 

" I came last night," said Donald, already softened and 
cheered by the looks and tones of a friend, " and when I 
leave this place, it will be to return to the Virginia Springs, 
where I left my friend Capt. Wharton." 

" But cannot you spare a few days to your friends here ?" 
Donald shook his head, though his smile seemed to show 
him half-disposed to yield " One week only ; I am about 
to sail for Europe. Spend this week with me at Springfield. 
Still a shake of the head ? Well, dine with me at the Tre- 
mont, at three o'clock, and we will talk further about it." 


" I can make no engagements for to-day, till I have an 
answer from Mr. Browne:" then turning to that gentleman, 
Donald continued in a very different tone, " I desire to have 
no secrets in this business from my friend, Mr. Grahame; 
what I ask from you is only justice, and will, I think, occupy 
but a few minutes of your time." 

" And I can wait," said Robert Grahame, " till you have 
attended to my friend, Lieutenant Montrose." 

" Well, sir, since Mr. G-rahame is so kind, will you please 
to say what the object of your visit is. Perhaps it may be 
to redeem your notes is it so ?" 

" I wish to Heaven it were, if only that I might hope 
never again to degrade myself by association with one of 
your name." 

" I assure you, Lieutenant Montrose, I join you earnestly 
in that wish. I am an imperfect man, conscious of many 
faults ; but without any pharisaical spirit, I may well desire 
to hold myself aloof from a gambler and a duellist." 

" So, your immaculate son has made his report ; I 
thought so, but let it pass ; it would be as manly to quar- 
rel with a woman as with your gray hairs. My object is 
soon stated ; I wish to see the notes which have so dishonor- 
ably passed into your hands." 

" To see your notes ! your own notes ! a somewhat strange 
request, and one which I may well refuse to grant, as they 
are now my property, fairly purchased from my son. Did 
you ever hear, Mr. Grahame, of a gentleman requesting to 
see his own notes ?" 

" I have no doubt Lieutenant Montrose has a sufficient 
reason for his request," was the grave, and to Mr. Browne 
not very satisfactory answer, to this appeal. The look to 
Donald which accompanied it drew from him an explanation 
which he had not intended making. It was addressed to 
Robert Grahame. 


" I am almost ashamed," he said, " to acknowledge even 
to you, that in my careless, and, as I am now satisfied, ill- 
placed confidence in him to whom the notes were given, I 
made no memorandum of them ; and I have, I fear, a very 
imperfect remembrance of the terms of payment, and scarcely 
a very exact one even of the amount due. You can scarcely 
blame me, I think, sir," turning from Grahame to Mr. 
Browne, " for desiring to rectify this, and to acquaint myself 
with my liabilities. My only object, I assure you, is to make 
arrangements for their speediest possible payment." 

" You cannot hesitate, I think, Mr. Browne," said Rob- 
ert Grahame, " to comply with the request of Lieutenant 
Montrose ; at least you will show me those notes," he con- 
cluded, as he saw the unbending sternness with which the 
old man regarded Donald, whose impetuosity and pride 
had evidently aroused the enmity of the father as well as of 
the son. 

. " Will you trust me in this matter ?" asked Grahame of 
his friend, speaking in a low voice, while Mr. Browne had 
gone to a desk at some distance apparently to bring the 

"Trust you? Entirely." 

" Then leave me with this man ; I think I can make bet- 
ter terms with him than you can do. Be at the Tremont at 
three o'clock. If I am not there, wait for me ; I will come 
as soon as I can." 

With a warm pressure of the hand, and an earnest " Thank 
you," Donald turned from him to Mr. Browne, who was 
slowly approaching with some papers in his hand, which he 
was reading as he walked, and said, "' I believe it will be 
pleasanter for us both that I should leave this business in 
the hands of Mr. Grahame. Whatever engagement he may 
make for me I will do my best to perform. I wish you good 
morning, sir." 


A very slight inclination of the head from Mr. Browne, 
another hasty pressure of the hand from Grahame, and Do- 
nald was gone. He had gained no intelligence in the inter- 
view ; Mr. Browne's manner was certainly not very cheering, 
yet the mere presence of Grahame, the mere fact that he 
had undertaken to obtain information for him, had given 
him new courage. Dismissing with his usual facility all un- 
pleasing subjects of thought, he spent an hour after his re- 
turn to his room in writing to Alice a letter full of playful 
and hopeful tenderness then he spent half an hour over the 
morning paper, and at length dressed himself and proceeded 
slowly to the Tremont. Robert Grahame had not yet ar- 
rived. When he came, Donald was struck, even at a distance, 
by his air of painful abstraction. He approached, and with 
head bent and eyes fixed on the ground, passed him without 
notice, and began to ascend the stairs to his room. Donald 
called to him, and he turned and held out his hand in friendly 
welcome, but the animation, the eagerness of the morning 
were gone. 

" Come to my room," he said, after a moment's apparent 
hesitation, " we can talk better there." Yet when they 
were in the room, he still delayed adverting to those cir- 
cumstances which were the subject of thought doubtless to 
them both. Donald's spirits sank beneath a dread of some 
calamity, the more terrible because so vaguely apprehended. 
At length he could stand it no longer, this evidently forced 
avoidance of what he had come purposely to hear, irritated 

" Grahame," he said, " you have something unpleasant to 
tell me. Pray let me hear it at once ; I can bear any thing 
but suspense. After all," he continued, endeavoring to speak 
cheerfully, ' : a few thousands of debt is no such mighty 
matter ; if I could only get time to pay them without call- 
ing on my father again after my promise, I should not care 


about them, and at any rate they are not worth the uneasi- 
ness you are evidently feeling for me ; so let us hear the worst." 

" You speak bravely, Montrose, but I fear you do not sus- 
pect the extent of the ill. It maybe, however, that the cir- 
cumstances of my own life have given debt an exaggerated hor- 
ror in my eyes, yet what do you suppose to be the amount of 
your debt to Browne, and to to his accomplice, to Richard 

As he said these last words, G-rahame's voice assumed a 
sterner tone, and a darker shadow fell upon his face. 

" My debt to Richard Grahame ! Why I paid it every 
cent to Browne before I returned South last summer." 

" You paid it to Browne ! and why not have paid it to 
Richard ?" 

" Because he preferred not to see me, and I was quite 
satisfied, for reasons of my own, that it should be so." 

" You saw your note destroyed, of course ?" 

" No ; for I was obliged to leave Boston immediately, 
and Richard Grrahame, who held my note, was not there ; 
but I have what is as good, Browne's receipt for the money, 
as in payment of my note to Richard Grrahame, of such a 

" And what was the amount you paid ?" 

" Five thousand dollars." 

" "Which Browne has endorsed on a note of twenty 
thousand dollars, which note Richard Grrahame has made 
payable to him." 

" It is a damnable forgery !" exclaimed Donald, tran- 
sported beyond all propriety. 

" I. truly believe it, Montrose, and I would gladly believe 
that Browne was the forger ; but how came he to hold your 
note to Richard ? and I am bound to conceal nothing from 
you, though it cover my own name with shame. Browne 
has placed in his father's hands a letter accompanying this 


note from Richard, in which he names the amount as twenty 
thousand dollars." 

" But if one be a forgery, may not the other?" 
Grahame hesitated a moment, then slowly shaking his 
head, said, " No. The letter, I fear, is genuine ; Richard's is 
a hand not easily imitated." 

" Where is your brother ? If I could see him, I might 
get to understand this matter better." 

" I cannot tell you. You look surprised but there has 
not for years been any great cordiality between Richard and 
me, and since that affair at Newport, I refused to see him, or 
to hold any communication with him ; I even forbade his 
name to be mentioned to me, though Mary continued to cor- 
respond" with him. From several things I conjecture that he 
has gone to some distance ; but come to Springfield with 
me, and she will tell you more than I can do." 

There was a pause, during which Donald walked hastily 
to and fro, striving, as we often do, by physical exertion, to 
give vent to mental irritation. At length, he threw himself 
into a chair, exclaiming, " Fifteen thousand dollars ! It will 
make some difference in Alice's and my housekeeping. Well 
I suppose I ought to be thankful that Mr. Browne did not 
make it a hundred thousand. He certainly has evinced 
some forbearance when he had to deal with such a blockhead 
as I have shown myself in this business." 

" But this, you know, is not all your debt to him." 
" No, but I hope his ingenuity has been less profitably 
exercised upon the other. It was of less consequence to 
display it there, as he may have to wait I pray G-od !" he 
added, with earnestness, " he may have to wait many a long 
year for that." 

" A man can afford to wait for fifty thousand dollars." 
" FOR WHAT ?" cried Donald, with startling emphasis, 
while his face became positively pale with excitement. 


" Your note to George Browne, bearing date Newport, 

August tenth, eighteen hundred , and made payable 

when you become master of Montrose Hall, is for fifty thou- 
sand dollars." 

" Grrahame, there is some mistake here," said Donald, 
" or you are jesting," and he tried to wreathe his pale lips 
into a smile, while he trembled with agitation. 

Robert Grahame shook his head. " I wish," he said, ^ I 
could believe there was any mistake. I am not apt to jest, 
and I should hardly do it on a subject which so nearly con- 
cerns a friend. But what did you suppose your debt to be?" 

" Not more than five thousand, I will be sworn ; less, I 
think, but of that I am not quite so confident. I was but 
too careless of the amount when I signed the notes, satisfied 
that, by deferring the payment, I had prevented any annoy- 
ance to my father from it, and then my illness, following so 
closely on the transaction, made me yet more doubtful of 
my own impressions." 

" A doubt which you expressed before Mr. Browne yes- 
terday, with your usual frankness, and of which, be assured, 
he will avail himself, in any controversy on the subject." 

" I see I have delivered myself up, bound hand and foot, 
into the hands of these scoundrels, and not myself only, but 
all all ! Fool ! fool that I have been !" 

He was silent a moment, then burst forth again " I was 
too generous too noble, to condescend to examine into ac- 
counts to think of dollars and cents generous ! noble !" 
and he laughed a laugh which made Robert Grahame trem- 
ble ; " and now my poor Alice must work for her bread, and 
a stranger will call the very graves of my fathers his ! But 
there is a God, Grahame do you not think there is a God 
just and holy ?" 

" Assuredly, my dear Montrose." 

" Then this great wrong cannot be. I may suffer, for I 


have sinned, but my father and mother, and Isabelle and 
Alice they have done nothing, you know ; why should they 
suffer ? My father, who trusted me so entirely" his voice 
faltered, his manhood gave way, tears rushed to his eyes, 
and his chest heaved ; had he been alone, he would have 
wept, but, as it was, he rose, walked to the window, stood 
there till he was comparatively calm, and then, taking his 
hat, held out his hand to Grahame, saying, " You will ex- 
cuse my leaving you so abruptly ; I am too much stunned 
by this intelligence for any company even yours I shall 
set out for home this afternoon." 

" That you must not do. Do not despair, for, though 
you spoke wildly just now, you spoke truly ; there is a just 
God above us, and such fraud as I am convinced has been 
practised toward you never prospers. Come home with me, 
consult Mary ; a woman's intuitions are often worth more 
than a man's reasoning in such a case : then, three days 
hence, I may be able to introduce you to that rara avis, an 
honest lawyer, and we will get his opinion on the case. We 
might see him this afternoon," he continued, consulting his 
watch, " for he is a Boston man, but at Springfield we shall 
have him all to ourselves, and he has promised to be there 
to assist at the most joyful event of my life. I want your 
presence on the same occasion." 

" Your marriage ?" questioned Donald, with a smile that 
was almost cheerful, for already the buoyant spirit of youth 
had seized the hope which Grahame had thrown out, and 
was rising above the despair that had threatened to ingulf it. 

" I will tell you what the event is as we ride along this 
afternoon, for I have finished my business, and, if you can 
be ready, I think we had better set out as soon as it gets a 
little cooler say about five o'clock." 

" Is there any coach leaving at that time ?" 

" No, but I have Ebony here, and you can hire a good 


hack for a week for what your coach-fare would cost you, 
and in this way we shall have a great deal more liberty, 
both of movement and speech ; do you not think so ?" 

" Oh, yes ! I shall like it a great deal better, and I 
should like to set out at once. I want to feel that I am 
doing something." 

u Well, you shall be doing something. Send your trunks 
over here, that they may go with mine by the coach to-mor- 
row ; they will be at Springfield nearly as soon as we shall ; 
then we will go to the Tremont stables and order our 
horses. That will leave us little time unoccupied before 
five o'clock." 

" So much the better. It is hard to keep a still body, 
with the mind in a ferment if I could only meet George 
Browne on the way, and make him acquainted with my 
cane it would be the exercise I should like best." 

" I should be glad to see you enjoy it, if it were not that 
it would be a somewhat expensive pleasure. We pay high 
for such things here." 

" Even with my new notions of the value of money, I 
fear I should hardly be able to deny myself such a gratifi- 
cation, if the temptation were set before me, but I suspect 
he will take care to keep himself out of my way. Well, I 
will be with you again as soon as I have packed my trunk 
and ordered it here." 

One thing more Donald did, however ; he added a post- 
script to his letter to Alice, saying, " I am just setting out 
for Springfield with Robert Grahame, who, I think, from 
something he said to me, must be about to be married." 



"No tears 

Dim the sweet look that Nature wears." 
"An honest man's the noblest work of God." 

WHILE Robert Grahame and Donald Montrose are proceed- 
ing leisurely on their way towards Springfield over a road 
now winding over hills yellow with the ripened grain, and 
now through dales where substantial farm-houses, with ample 
barns and orchards ruddy with the ripening apples, or a saw- 
mill with its pretty pond and fall of water, occupied the pla- 
ces on which thriving towns now stand we will disclose to 
the reader the event to which the former had referred as 
the most joyful of his life. Long and wearisome had been 
the toils of Robert Grahame in the execution of his father's 
will, and the fulfilment of that vow which he had made be- 
side his bed of death, and repeated over his just covered 
grave. For many years no hope had cheered those toils. 
He had indeed said his father should yet have a noble mon- 
ument, but it might be the monument of his son's labors 
and his life. The life of his life he had indeed given. The 
hopes which animate the soul of the youth, the dreams of 
ambition or affection, a life of ease or a life of honorable 
aspiring, these were not for him. He had laid them down 
on the altar of duty, and from the still small voice within 


him, and the smiling heaven above, must come his reward. 
The impetuous sanguine spirit of the boy became subdued, 
as years showed him more and more of the hopelessness of 
his undertaking, into a stern quietude. But for the devotion 
of that gentle sister who had shared his home, and more of 
his thoughts than were communicated to any other, he might 
have grown hard ; but she kept the waters of affection ever 
flowing in his heart. Still she could not wholly counteract 
all the other influences of his life, and the evil direction in 
which his nature had developed, that which marked him of a 
fallen race, was the tendency to a proud self-reliance unbe- 
coming in a dependent creature ; and to an uncompromising 
severity in his judgment of others. Yet for the follies into 
which exuberant spirits or an undisciplined heart sometimes 
lead the young, he had great indulgence, as he had shown in 
the case of Donald. But to a man unfaithful to his obliga- 
tions, to one who showed himself habitually too weak to re- 
sist temptations, to one who lived a life of self-indulgence, 
and more than all, to one who was not brave enough to be 
always true, he was severely rigid. He gave to such no se- 
cond trial. Was he an agent, he was dismissed without an 
opportunity of remonstrance ; was he a friend, he would find 
himself barred from the heart which had trusted him. Yet 
no word or action would give him a right to complain of injus- 
tice. His rigid self restraint extended even to the gratification 
of his inexpensive tastes, and the employment of those few 
hours which he might honestly call his own. For many 
years these had been given to the continuance of his classi- 
cal studies, and-many a gentleman entering the machinist's 
shop, or the superintendent's office for he had at different 
times filled both these places had been surprised to find on 
his shelf, a volume of Greek tragedy or of Roman satire. 
But of late these had given place to works on mechanics, 
statistics of manufacture, &c. He had said to himself, 


" Whatever may advance my success in my work I am bound 
to do, and if by these studies I can manufacture more and bet- 
ter cloth with less labor or less expense, it is my duty to 
pursue them." But in whatever line he engaged, his was 
not a mind that could be contented with mediocrity. The 
studies which had been commenced as a task, were contin- 
ued as a pleasure. Through the pleasant evening hours, and 
often far into the night, he might be seen bending over 
books full of crabbed figures, in which there was no line of 
grace or beauty. Then he began to draw such figures him- 
self, and to make model machines. Mary laughed at his new 
passion, as she called it, but his was not a mind to be roused 
to such intense action without an adequate motive. There 
was a defect, a glaring and acknowledged defect, in all me- 
chanical powers he had yet seen ; a defect which caused a 
great waste of power ; how might it be remedied ? This 
had been the problem it had cost him years to solve. No 
less disciplined mind, no one less practised in rigid self-con- 
trol, could have continued so long such intense application 
with so little encouragement. Again and again, when he 
thought he had grasped the principle, his embodied idea 
failed of success ; but gaining something from each failure, 
he began anew, " bating no jot of heart or hope," and the 
reward came. He found himself the inventor not of a par- 
ticular machine, which must be confined in its influence to 
a certain class of objecta, and the demand for which would 
consequently be limited to the place and the time in which 
there would be a demand for such objects, but of a power 
supplying a defect hitherto felt in all machinery. The in- 
vention was one of which all had felt the need, one which, 
used by some, none could afford to want ; it was a mine of 
wealth, and his heart leaped with a sensation long unfelt, at 
the thought that his life's labor was near its accomplishment. 
And now, ye who hold that ideas should be free as 


the light and air of heaven, that no man should appropriate 
to himself the right to use them, or tax his fellow for their 
use, but that he should throw them out for the good of all, 
reserving to himself no advantage unless it may be that of 
the more complete development of his own principle which 
each man is supposed to have the power of making ; was 
this joy selfish ? Should the long hours of thought and labor, 
the sacrifice of so much of life to uncongenial pursuits, give 
no claim to the inventor to demand from his fellow-men, some 
return for the advantages they may derive from his toils? 

Robert G-rahame at least thought not so. His first act was 
to test the value of his discovery in the mills under his con- 
trol, and having proved it all he expected, he immediately 
went to Washington with his model and obtained the patent, 
which should secure the profits accruing from its use to him- 
self for a certain time. This was during the last winter, and he 
was now, as he had told Donald, about to sail for England, to 
obtain a patent from that government for its use there. But 
before he sailed, one joyful and triumphant day awaited him. 
Years of labor and economy had enabled him to do some- 
thing in the payment of his father's debts. As he was not 
legally responsible for these debts, he had made his own con- 
ditions in assuming them ; and these were that he should 
be completely untrammelled, both in regard to the time and 
the order of his payments. Making a list of all the credi- 
tors, he had divided his savings amongst them according to 
his conviction of their necessities. To the larger, who were 
also the wealthier creditors, he had paid comparatively little. 
There were thousands still due, but these thousands a few 
months had been sufficient to bring him, from the sales made 
of his invention to some, and of the right to use his patent 
for certain districts of country to others. And now the day 
was come for which he had labored and longed, but hardly 
hoped. Hia creditors were invited to meet him at his own 


house near Springfield. They were told it was to make some 
communication to them of importance to their own interests. 
Something of payment was intimated, enough to induce 
them all to attend, yet not enough to forestall entirely the 
pleasant surprise awaiting them. Of these creditors there 
were four, the original number that had joined Mr. Grahame 
in the erection of the mills twenty years before. Of these, 
two were residents of Boston, and two of Springfield. Of 
the two gentlemen residing in Springfield, as they will not 
again be brought within the range of our narrative, so we 
have nothing now to say except that they were of that nume- 
rous class which the world calls honest men, of whom their 
tombstones would probably declare always provided they 
were not greatly tempted before these were erected that they 
were good sons, husbands, and fathers ; and valuable members 
of the community. With Mr. Browne, the reader is already 
in some degree acquainted. The other Boston creditor, Mr. 
Gaston, was a man of different stamp ; but let his acts speak 
for themselves. The only other guests invited were Donald 
and Mr. Holmes of Boston the honest lawyer of whom 
Robert Grahame had spoken. He had been his college 
chum, and had always continued his friend. 

The day has come, the day of fulfilled hopes a day which 
comes to how few ! Wearied as he had been by the journey 
of the preceding day, Robert Grahame could not sleep after 
the dawn of that morning's light. He rose early and walked 
abroad, but not in the direction of the factory. His course led 
towards the house of which Mary Grahame had spoken to 
Donald as of her former home. At about half a mile above 
his present abode, where the river had swept a deeper and 
wider channel for itself, the road was intersected by a broad 
avenue bordered with lofty elms. The trees wanted prun- 
ing, and the avenue was grass grown ; for except two or 
three summer months, the place was inhabited only by an 


old woman, whose business was to take care of the house, 
and the little furniture kept there by the proprietor for sum- 
mer use, Robert entered the avenue, and walked on be- 
neath the shadow of the old elms, where for twelve years 
his feet had never trodden. The avenue proceeded in a di- 
rect line for nearly a quarter of a mile, skirted on each 
side by beautifully rolling ground, dotted here and there 
with forest trees ; the moutain ash, the maple, and silver- 
leaved willow. In the taste with which these had been left, 
when the forest was cleared away, he recognized his father's 
hand. He remembered how he had pleased himself with 
the thought of reproducing in America the English country- 
seat, at which the happiest hours of his boyhood had been 
passed. But now the avenue makes a wide circle, sweeping 
around a lawn which he retained in his memory, as being of 
velvet-like smoothness and softness. The grass had become 
wiry and rough, for it was now rarely shorn. The house 
was approached through this lawn. On one side of it was 
a shrubbery, on the other, where the elevation on whose brow 
it stood began to slope towards the river, the ground had 
been formed into hanging gardens. These had been closely 
associated with his mother in his mind. He loved to think 
of her as he had seen her in his boyhood, before sorrow had 
paled her cheek, or disease stolen its roundness from her 
form : bending here over her roses and carnations, or sitting 
in the summer-house built down near the water side, embow- 
ered with honey-suckle, woodbine and sweet-brier, occupied 
with a book, her pencil, or a needle ; while the perfume of 
the flowers, the cool refreshing breeze from the river, and 
the lulling sound with which its tiny wavelets broke on the 
shore just below her, steeped every sense in delight. Un- 
seen by any one, he descended from the lawn through the 
gardens to the summer-house. The flowers were not entire- 
ly rooted from the garden, but they were choked with weeds ; 


the summer-house was still standing, but much of the lattice 
to which the vines had clung, and part of the flooring, had 
decayed and fallen away ; and except a stunted sweet-brier, 
over which a woodbine had thrown its flaunting tendrils, no- 
thing of the vines remained. He stood long here listening 
to the dashing of the waters on the shore that was the 
same, for God's works decay not. A succession of images 
rather than of thoughts were sweeping through his mind, as 
he stood thus. The gladness of the present was shadowed 
by them. Tennyson had not then written, or he might have 
used for the expression of the feelings of that hour, those 
lines so simple and so touching : 

"Break, break, break, 
At the foot of thy crags, oh sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead, 
Will never come back to me." 

But the sun has risen above the hills, and now flashes 
its light upon the broad surface of the river. The sudden 
brightness aroused Robert Grahame from his reverie, and with 
one long look around him, he turned and proceeded slowly, 
lingeringly up the garden. Among the weeds some flowers 
were blooming ; close beside the purple flowers of a tall 
thistle, was a white rose in full bloom, with a half-opened 
bud beside it. It was his mother's favorite flower, and was 
his accustomed morning offering to her when he was at 
home. He bent over the bush for a moment with a swelling 
heart, then taking out his knife cut the branch carefully off, 
and carried it to Mary. She wore the roses in her hair at 
dinner that day. 

The invited guests were punctual to their appointment. 
As they entered the dining-room, Donald noticed two pic- 
tures hanging over the mantel-piece, which he had never 
seen before, they were the portraits of the father and mother 


of Robert and Mary, and of the absent Richard too, whom 
the first portrait greatly resembled, so greatly, that Donald 
found himself speculating on the probable similarity of 
character which had made the father a sanguine schemer, 
and the son, under different circumstances, a gamester. 
Mary and Robert were more like their mother, though it 
was from the father that Mary inherited her clear brown skin, 
black hair and dark eyes, while Robert's fairer complexion, 
gray eyes, and light curling hair and beard, were as evident- 
ly the gift of his mother. 

There was no attempt at any unusual show in the host 
and hostess. Their only waiter was the servant maid whom 
Mary had taken as a little ignorant girl, and trained for 
herself. Good soup, excellent fish caught at their very door, 
roasted chickens, with vegetables from their own garden, 
home-made bread and butter, and a dessert of fruits, made 
a good yet inexpensive dinner of four courses. What 
pleased Donald best, was the well-bred ease and courtesy of 
both brother and sister, qualities which he justly thought the 
circumstances of the day and the relations in which they stood 
to their guests would have made it difficult for any to assume, 
who were not to the manner born. Respectful, but with 
no taint of servility, cheerful, but with no touch of exulta- 
tion, they seemed neither depressed by the past, nor elated 
by the present. As there were no wines, when Mary rose 
from table, the gentlemen also arose to accompany her, but 
at a motion from Robert she resumed her seat, and they re- 
mained where they stood, waiting the result. 

" Please resume your seats, gentlemen, for a few minutes." 
said their host, " I have a communication to make to you 
which should be made here" glancing as he pronounced 
the last words at the portraits, as if he would have said " in 
their presence." 

" I have been indebted," he continued, " to some of you 
for money lent to my father that he could not pay it, was 


the bitterest sorrow of his death hour ; he bequeathed the 
obligation to me. Slowly and by small degrees I have paid 
you some portion of it ; by a fortunate accident nay, nay, 
by a good Providence, I am able to pay you all, principal 
and interest. On these papers," and he drew a package from 
his pocket, " I have made a statement of the amount due to 
each of you, and with each statement you will find a check 
for that amount." 

He passed the papers around. They were received and 
examined in silence. 

' You will find them all right, I believe, gentlemen," 
said Robert Grahame. 

" No ; I do not find mine right," said Mr. Gaston. " it is 
all wrong ; you owe me no interest, indeed, I can hardly 
think you owe me any thing : for though the valuation amxed 
to the Mills when we took them from your father, left him 
still in our debt, they would, if sold now, more than cover it 
all ; and the enormous profit of the last few years, a profit 
for which we are solely indebted to the enterprise of your 
father, and to your own judgment and fidelity leaves us 
certainly no claim for interest. I cannot receive that check," 
and he threw it on the table. 

It had been Donald's chief interest during this scene to 
watch the brother and sister. He had seen the cheeks of 
Mary flush, and her bosom heave with her quick and labored 
breathing as Robert spoke ; but in him, in Robert himself, 
there had been hitherto no sign of agitation, unless it might 
be that his tone of voice was somewhat deepened ; but now he 
spoke rapidly and earnestly. 

" You will you will receive it, Mr. Gaston. You are too 
kind to lessen the satisfaction and the joy of this day ; and 
greatly would it be lessened, if there were but one left who 
had a right to complain of my father." 

" Complain of him ! I have long felt that we and the 
whole country had much for which to be grateful to him 


We are enjoying the fruits of a foresight, and a courage, 
which deserved a better reward." 

" That was all which was wanting to make this day 
perfect," said Robert Grahame as he grasped Mr. Gaston's 
hand. " May I hope that you all, gentlemen, feel with Mr. 
Gaston, that you have nothing with which to reproach my 
father's memory ?" 

" Nothing, certainly nothing now" was the measured 

" Then my labor has not been in vain." 

The tears were running down Mary's cheeks like rain, and 
Donald's eyes glistened as he looked from her to her brother. 
The scene had awakened in him emotions strangely mingled of 
joy and sorrow, of exultation and regret. He saw clearly, and 
felt deeply, the un pleasing contrast which he presented to Rob- 
ert Grahame. His life had been that of an idler, Grahame's 
that of a laborer. There they stood, the gentleman and the 
mechanic which was the nobler man 1 On selfish dissipa- 
tion, he could scarcely call it pleasure, he had wasted hun- 
deeds, and the hundreds had become thousands, through his 
indolent and childish surrender of himself to the guidance 
of others, and those, men of whom all he knew was calculat- 
ed to make a wise man cautions. Robert Grahame, while 
yet a boy, had assumed the work of a man, and he had 
done it. He was about to bring sorrow and shame upon 
his father's head, Robert Grahame had vindicated his fa- 
ther's memory, and won unwilling homage to it, even from 
those who had been his enemies. He felt most painfully, 
that in losing wealth, he should lose all that had ever given 
him a claim to the world's consideration ; Robert Grahame 
in poverty, and bearing a sullied name, had secured more 
than a common respect wherever he was known. And yet, 
a year ago, he had dared to look down on that man, and to 
fancy that he did him honor by his friendship ! 


Donald went forth from that dinner a humbler and a 
wiser man. Of his interests Robert Grahaine had not been 
unmindful ; he induced his friend Mr. Holmes to remain 
for the night, and when the other guests had departed, he 
entered on the subject of Donald's difficulties, and of the 
discrepancy between his recollections and the notes held by 
Mr. Browne ; copies of which he had taken for Donald, 
with the permission of that gentleman. 

" If I understand aright,'' said Mr. Holmes to Donald, 
" you had taken a receipt from Mr. Browne, for the payment 
made to him for Mr. Richard Grahame." 

" I have such a receipt : at least, I had," said Donald, 
coloring as he made the correction. 

" Can I see it ; or," continued Mr. Holmes, as he read 
the expression of Donald's face, " can you remember whether 
it was a receipt for payment in full? This is of the utmost 
importance, for such a receipt would set aside all claim 
arising from a note of earlier date ; Browne probably knew 
this, however, and would avoid such a form, in dealing with 
one whom he supposed too incautious to question his pro- 
ceedings. The only thing to be done, therefore, in defence, 
is to prove the notes, what I doubt not they are, in whole 
or in part, forgeries. This," he continued, touching the 
copy of the note to Browne himself, as it lay on the table 
before him, " cannot be claimed till you are in actual pos- 
session of Montrose Hall." 

" Which I never will be, if I have to tell my father all, 
in order to prevent it." 

" The very best thing you can do it will make that note 
worthless as an old rag for the other, your best defence will 
be Richard Grahame's testimony where is he ?" he asked, 
turning to Mary Grahame, who had remained at Donald's 



" In South America." 

" That is a somewhat indefinite address ; how do you 
send your letters to him ?" 

" Through Mr. George Browne, who obtained the agency 
for him, on which he has gone out. He did not know, him- 
self, when he left me, where he could be addressed with most 

" Mr. Brown has looked ahead, I see ; but we will en- 
deavor to circumvent him yet. Your course would be to 
take the initiative in this business, and bring a charge against 
him, for endeavoring to obtain money under false pretences. 
Such a proceeding would carry the case into the criminal 
court, and all action in the civil process, which he might in- 
stitute, would be null till the criminal case was decided. 
Our want of proof, however, must make us more wary in our 
proceedings. At present, nothing better suggests itself to 
me, than that you should empower me to see Mr. George 
Browne, on my return to Boston, and to endeavor to arouse 
his fears of detection, without positively making a charge, 
which it would not do to make without proof to substantiate 

" And, suppose his fears cannot be aroused ?" questioned 

" We must then reserve ourselves for an answer to his 
action ; we must then lengthen out the process by every art 
of the law ; in such a case, I shall consider them all honest ; 
and in the mean time, our friends here must do all they can to 
get Richard Grahame back. His deposition would save us." 

And thus the affair was left for the present, Robert and 
Mary Grahame promising to do all in their power to secure 
safe communication with their brother. 

" But do you think," said Donald afterwards, when he 
saw Mr. Holmes alone, " that Richard Grahame could be 
depended on, even were he here ?" 


" Oh yes !" then, as he saw the still dubious expression 
of Donald's face, he added, " I see you do not understand 
my friend Richard, he is more weak than wicked, a distinc- 
tion not altogether without a difference. George Browne 
I call wicked ; he will do a great wrong to another, either 
from pure malevolence, or for the sake of a small gain to 
himself. Richard will only do wrong when he can persuade 
himself that some great good is to result from it, or when it 
seems to him the only way by which he can escape from 
some evil, greater to his apprehension than that he inflicts ; 
this is weakness." 

" And thus, weakness leads to wickedness," said Donald, 

' ; As it must ever do in a world where evil predominates 
over good ; for the weak are borne helplessly on the strong- 
est current." 

" Helplessly : passively ; then where is their fault ? 
where their responsibility?" 

Donald spoke with the solemn emphasis of a spirit 
searching after a great truth ; for to the weak he felt that 
his past life united him. There came no immediate answer 
to his question, for it was one which Mr. Holmes had never 
asked for himself. At length the silence was broken by a 
low, tremulous voice, speaking not on the piazza, on which 
they stood, but from the other side of a window, where in 
the dim twilight, in the shadow of a muslin drapery, Mary 
Grahanie sat unperceived. 

" Their fault is forgetfulness of Him, who ruleth in 
righteousness, and who maketh the evil-doer to ' eat of the 
fruit of his doings. 5 In Him the weak may find strength." 

Touched by her earnestness; grieved that she should 
have overheard their remarks respecting Richard ; neither 
Mr. Holmes nor Donald attempted to continue the subject, 
yet the words she had spoken were not forgotten ; they were 


words of truth, and it may be, that to one of them at least, 
they shall one day prove words of power. 

The next day all the party had dispersed. Donald ac- 
companied Mr. Holmes to Boston, and then by his advice 
hastened homeward, to lose no time in inducing his father 
to make such arrangements as would disappoint Mr. George 
Browne's expectations. He travelled with a heavy heart, 
for a painful and humiliating confession awaited him, at the 
end of his journey. Again, and again, he rehearsed the 
scene of that confession as he went, and still he closed his 
eyes with a shuddering pang, as his mother's proud, disdain- 
ful eye, and his father's look of sorrowful reproach, rose be- 
fore him. Were he to be the only sufferer from Browne's 
success, rather a thousand times would he lose all, and be- 
come a laborer for his daily bread, than stand before them 
condemned as a cowardly deceiver ; it might be even as one, 
who, in his cupidity, could regard with satisfaction the death 
he had suffered himself to anticipate. Twenty times was he 
on the point of returning to Boston, and making any terms 
with the holder of his notes, which should preserve his secret, 
till those whose condemnation he most dreaded, should have 
passed away ; but still the thought, that in the complete sac- 
rifice of his father's property, which must then be made, 
others must suffer with him, and perhaps not less for when 
were earthly motives pure and unmixed his hatred to 
Browne, and determination to prevent his triumph, urged 
him on. 

From New-York, he took a packet for Savannah, mail- 
ing a letter to Capt. Wharton, on the day he sailed, to an- 
nounce his change of plan. 

Leaving him to follow by the slower impulse of winds 
and waves, let us to Montrose Hall with the speed of thought, 
and see what awaits his coming. 



" I cannot doubt that they whom you deplore 
Are glorified ; or, if they sleep, shall wake 
From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love." 
" Silent and slow, and terribly strong, 
The mighty shadow is borne along, 
Like the dark eternity to come." 

IT was the last week of September, and the parching heat of 
summer had given place to a chill drizzle, more comfortless, 
by far, than a pouring rain. This had continued all day, 
with the wind blowing from the northeast. In the afternoon 
the wind increased, coming not steadily, but in gusts, which 
bent the tops of the stout trees, and kept the waters of the 
receding tide from sinking to their usual level. As evening 
closed in, many a gazer in that land of the hurricane, felt his 
heart fail, as he watched the scud driving with frightful ra- 
pidity over the face of the pale moon, and of a sky all of one 
sombre hue, except at one point, low in the horizon, where 
the clouds occasionally lifted, showing a line of light for a 
few minutes, and then settled down again. 

" It is the equinoctial gale ; we are going to have a hur- 
ricane," said one to another, and prudent men drew up their 
boats far from the water, and put props under their carriage 
houses, and saw that their doors were bolted and their win- 
dows well secured. 

At Montrose Hall alone, no such precautions were taken, 


for within those walls was a destroyer more powerful and 
more dreaded than the storm, in whose presence all other 
terrors were forgotten. Beneath His power, the strong man 
lay bowed in all the feebleness of infancy. 

For the first time, since his boyhood, Col. Montrose had 
been attacked, soon after Donald left the Hall, by the fever 
prevalent in the warm climate in which he lived. The at- 
tack had been marked, from the first, by peculiar virulence, 
and as one by one, the usual remedies were tried without 
success, and a weakness he had never felt before, crept over 
him, the conviction forced itself upon him that the hour was 
come to him, which comes sooner or later to all ; that his 
earthly relations were about to terminate, and a new state 
of being to begin. In such circumstances, there is but one 
important question for us. What will that approaching state 
be to us ? This was a question which Col. Montrose had 
not left it to a dying hour to solve. The impressions of a 
religious education received from a pious mother, had, it is 
true, faded away amid the opposing associations of a long 
life ; but the consistent, unobtrusive piety of his brother's 
widow had reawakened them, and the earnest sense of re- 
sponsibility as a Christian, expressed by Alice, more in ac- 
tion than in words, had, as he himself acknowledged to Do- 
nald, given them new power. Simple, truthful, and fearless 
in all, to entertain a conviction and to express it were one, 
with Col. Montrose ; and but a few weeks before his death 
the gray-haired veteran and his young niece had knelt to- 
gether at the altar, to receive that rite, whereby they ac- 
knowledged themselves partakers of the divine grace and 
mercy, through the atonement of a Saviour. Blessed memo- 
ry that, to those who now watch beside his bed of death ! 

Little cared they who kept that watch, for the howling of 
the storm without. Perhaps, they would not even have 
known it, had it not kept their old pastor from the bedside 


of him who was fast passing away. Mr. Dunbar had him- 
self been ill, and spite of nurse and physician, he had been 
twice to the Hall, to administer the consolations of religion 
to the failing mind of his friend, but to-day he could not 
come, and they had wisely concealed from him the great 
need of his presence. That need was felt by the loving 
hearts that surrounded the dying man, not by him. To 
him. but one human desire remained, it was to see Donald. 
Letters had been written to him within a few days, and sent, 
some to Virginia, some to Boston, enclosed in a few lines 
from Mrs. Charles Montrose to her brother, requesting him 
to deliver them, if Donald was in that city, and urging the 
great necessity for speed ; and some to Savannah, with 
the faint hope that he might be already so far on his way. 

And now the evening hour has closed in, dark and wild. 
Louder and louder blow the winds. They roar in the old 
chimneys like the sound of ten Niagaras, drowning the noise 
of the waves that are rushing to the shore. Giant trees are 
uprooted, and fall thundering to the ground ; the ocean 
covers them, and still it is driven onward higher higher. 
The highest wave throws its spray over the steps of the house. 

" God grant he come no nigher !" prays old Cato, the only 
one within that room who heeds the storm, or watches the 
approach of the sea. 

No noise breaks the death-sleep of him who lies there 
within the shadow of the grave, or attracts from him one 
look, or one thought, of the hearts which swell to bursting 
with every labored breath he heaves. Still Cato goes and 
comes with anxious looks, they heed him not, but in a lull of 
the gale, there comes the sound of some one knocking vio- 
lently at the outer door. 

" Can it be Donald ?" is whispered from one to another. 

Quickly Cato goes to the door. 

" Tank Far'er !" he says as he draws back the bolt, " he 


come to dis 'are door if I open t'oder I neber shut him 

The door is opened, and there rush in, not Donald 
but several dripping and frightened negroes. Their tale is 
soon told. The kitchen has been blown down, and escaping 
from its ruins, they have made their way with great difficulty, 
" fighting the wind," they say, over the fallen trees to the 
house. With their assistance, Cato bolts the door again, 
and takes them to the parlor, where he had made up a fire 
early in the evening. They throw on more wood, and sit 
around it on the floor, drying their wet clothes, and talking 
to each other in whispers. 

" Hi !" exclaims one " de wind gwine tek de roof off de 
ole house." 

" De roof safe enough, sister Judy. De wind no come 
for dat to-night He come for more nor dat. Aint you see 
how Bro' Cato look ? Ouw ! wha' we gwine do when we loss 
we massa ?" 

" Maussa ! Him no maussa him we far'er him we ebery 
ting. Aint you want to look 'pon him 'gen, sister Judy ?" 

" Yes ; an' I gwine to look too. Ef he see me, he wont 
say notin'. else he jis' say, how d'ye, Judy." 

Suiting the action to the word, Judy rose, and leaving 
her more timid companions behind, advanced on tiptoe to 
the room, softly opened the door and entered. She stood 
for a moment unnoticed at the foot of the bed, gazing on 
him who had been in her eyes the mightiest of men, but who 
now lay there so powerless. From him she glanced to Alice 
and Isabelle who sat hand clasped in hand, and tears flowing 
down their pale cheeks, too much exhausted by grief and 
watching, for the exhibition of violent emotion ; she saw the 
fixed look of the wife who felt herself already a widow she 
marked the sorrow in the countenance of the sister-in-law, who 
tenderly moistened from time to time, the pale, parched lips 


of the dying then folding her hands together, she turned 
away with streaming tears to make her report to her friends 
in the parlor. Grief gives them courage, and when she returns, 
they follow her one by one, and stand in almost breathless 
silence in a dark line at the foot of the bed. They are 
seen, but none ask whence or how they came. Their right 
to be there is recognized by all, for they too are mourners. 

But hark ! is it the wind that shakes the front door so 
violently 1 Cato has been hearkening to it for some minutes, 
now he approaches the door, stands near it for a moment, re- 
turns to the room, and whispers to two or three of the 
negroes who follow him out. 

" Dat's mass Donald," he said when they had left the 
room. " Somethin' tell me dat's mass Donald. He must 
come in, an' yet I most afraid for open dat door, an' Cap'in 
Sullivan's trumpet wouldn't make him hear ef I was to tell 
him to go round to t'oder one, so you must stan' jist here, 
an' when I draw de bolt you press 'gainst de door, so 
mass Don can jist get trou, an' den hold 'em fast tell I put 
de bolt in agen." 

They did as he commanded, but found it a difficult task 
to accomplish. It was done however, but was it Donald 
indeed who entered, wet and weary, his coat where it was 
not tightly fitted to him blown into ribbons, his hat gone 
and his head bound with a handkerchief, which was soaked 
with blood, from a wound received from the branch of a 
falling tree ? Yes it was he who had been for hours wan- 
dering within a few miles of his home, unable amid fallen 
trees, and through the whirl of the storm to recognize the 
old land-marks, or keep the well-known way. The last two 
miles he had come without his horse, which he had been 
compelled to leave in the woods, too exhausted- to leap over 
the logs constantly obstructing their path. Those two miles 
he had come creeping, running, leaping, making efforts and 


incurring perils from which, at any other time, he would 
have shrunk appalled, but of which he was now scarce con- 
scious. He had room in his heart for but one feeling, in his 
mind for but one thought his father was dying, and the 
future fate of many rested on his seeing him before he died. 

" My father !" he said with gasping breath as he entered. 

' ; He alibe yet, maussa," said Cato, in a voice which no 
training could have refined into softer or gentler compassion. 

Without a word Donald staggered rather than walked 
into the room where his father lay. But what is this ? Is the 
dead about to rise ? It may be that the sudden rush of the 
wind into the house and room, had broken that heavy death- 
like sleep, or it may be that the just flitting spirit had been 
recalled by the voice it had so longed to hear, but the 
watchers are startled by an unexpected change, the breath- 
ing becomes quiet, the limbs move, the eyes of him whom 
they had regarded as well-nigh dead, open, and as Donald ap- 
proaches, turn upon him with intelligent but feeble expres- 
sion, and the pale lips quiver in the effort to syllable his 
name. The stimulants which had been laid aside as useless 
are offered again and accepted eagerly, though swallowed 
with difficulty. Revived by them he is able to whisper 
feebly, " My son ! kiss me, Donald." 

Donald bows down and presses his lips to those pale ones. 
How gladly would he have breathed into them half of his 
young life. 

" Oh father ! father !" he cries in agony ; " live if only 
for one day one hour !" and he falls on his knees and kisses 
the hand which feebly clings to his own. 

Again the feeble voice of the dying is heard slowly whis- 
pering, " My Heavenly Father has granted my last wish ; I 
see my boy, my dear boy." He rests awhile, then, after 
another reviving draught, speaks again. " My poor wife !" he 
says, as his eye rests compassionately on her tearless face. 


She bows her ear to his lips, that she may not lose one 
precious word. 

" God lives, though I die love him, pray to him. He 
has promised to be the husband of the widow " after a 
pause ij Isabelle, come here by Donald." 

Isabelle kneels sobbing beside her brother. 

" My darlings, God bless you ! Love him, pray to him, 
and Alice " she was kneeling on the other side. He tried 
to move towards her the hand his wife held, and Mrs. Mon- 
trose guided it so as to rest upon her head ; " Good child 
God will bless you. Tell Charles good-bye for me," he mur- 
mured, u and my good sister and my people some of them 
are here " turning his dim eyes towards the foot of the bed 
" tell them all good-bye ; I believe they all love me. Poor 
things, they will grieve for me, but you will be good to them, 
my darlings ; you will not let them miss me." 

Loud sobs from the colored people filled the room at this 
last proof of care for them. There was a longer pause, and 
then the dying man spoke again. 

" Mr. Dunbar, pray," he said. 

None answered for a moment, then Cato advanced to the 

" Mr. Dunbar aint here, maussa ; will you hear poor 
Cato pray ?" 

< : Good Cato ! yes." 

All knelt, and amidst hushed sobs joined in Cato's pray- 
er. We give it in his own broken tongue. 

" Our Far'er in Heaben ! de hearts of dy poor chillern 
is broke widin dem. De good Lord gib we a good kind 
maussa, an' now he take 'em away ; an' wha' can we do, 
Far'er ? wha' can he wife an' he chillern, an' he friends an' we 
all do 1 No doctor can help we, no friend can help we ; only 
God Almighty can help we. So now we come to we Far'er 
in Heaben. an' we say, please good Far'er gib we back we 


kind, good, dear maussa for a little while, jis' for two, tree 
year more, we lub 'em so much, Far'er, he bery hard to part 
from 'em ; but we all belong to we Far'er, an' ef He can't 
spare 'em longer to we, oh good Far'er, we pray take 'em in 
dy own arm bery softly, jis' like a mudder take a suckin' 
baby, an' carry 'em safe an' easy up to de Heabenly home ; 
an' let we all, de wife o' he bosom, an' he son, an' he daugh- 
ter, an' he brudder, wife, an' de little one wha' he bring up in he 
house, an' he man-servant, an' he maid-servant, all join 'em 
da' to lub 'em an' to sarbe 'em again in de Heabenly home, 
an' to sing de song o' Moses an' de lamb wid 'em for eber 
an' eber. Year dy poor chillern, Far'er, for de Blessed Jesus' 
sake. Amen." 

A whispered amen from the dying lips, then suddenly a 
gasping sigh another after an interval which seemed end- 
less to their waiting eyes, another, and all was still still 
for ever in that cold, pale body " Dust thou art, and unto 
dust thou shalt return." For the friend they loved, he was 
not there : God had heard their prayer and taken him in 
his arms safely and easily up to the heavenly home. 

Even as he left that room. of death Cato went out from 
the rear of the house to gauge the tide, which during the 
long hours of the night had continued to rise, till the waves 
had flowed over the yard some distance beyond the house. 
Now, at four o'clock, he found that the waters had receded, 
and the wind lulled, and that though the east was dark and 
hazy, the stars were shining in the western sky. The inhabit- 
ants of Montrose Hall did not know till long after, that while 
they were absorbed in contemplation of the approaching 
death of one of their number, Cato was trembling for the 
lives of all. 

The storm had rendered the roads impassable for any or- 
dinary conveyances, but gentlemen on horseback or on foot 
penetrated through all obstacles the succeeding day, to the 


various plantations of their friends, to learn the extent of 
the injuries suffered. The intelligence which awaited them 
at Montrose Hall, caused every thing else to be for a time 
forgotten. The gloom which darkened around that dwell- 
ing, threw its shadow over many others ; and no token of 
hohor was withheld from the dead, or of interest and sympa- 
thy from the mourners, because of the difficulties which the 
storm had opposed to its exhibition. Gentjemen who might 
have been supposed to be sufficiently engaged in repairing 
their own losses, turned out upon the roads with all the force 
they could command of laborers, and so cleared those lead- 
ing to the Hall, that when the rites of burial were performed 
for him they honored, a large concourse of friends assembled 
to see him laid to rest beside his fathers. Mr. Dunbar, 
yet pale and weak from recent illness, was there, sorrowing 
yet rejoicing. The ladies of the family were not seen ; in- 
deed it was said that Mrs. John Montrose had been seen by 
none, but Isabelle and an old nurse, since the hour she had 
been led from her husband's death-bed to another apartment. 
Donald appeared with bloodshot eyes, and wild and haggard 
expression. Those who observed him closely, saw that he 
changed color frequently, and some attempt was made to dis- 
suade him from accompanying the procession from the house 
to the grave ; but he answered the attempt with almost fierce 
determination. Even the colored people who had assembled 
from the several plantations of Col. Montrose on this sad occa- 
sion and more than a hundred of whom stood at the entrance 
of the graveyard, as they divided to permit the passage of the 
body and its escort were heard amidst their wailings to ex- 
claim, " Ah, poor mass Donald ! jist see how he look !" Many 
manly eyes were wet with tears that day, as the solemn rites 
proceeded, but Donald's remained dry. With folded arms and 
gloomy brow he stood motionless near the grave, riveting his 
eyes upon the coffin ; as it was lowered into the grave, he was 


seen to make a step towards it, and as the dull, hollow sound 
of the falling earth struck on his ear, he tottered forward and 
would have fallen within the grave, had he not been caught 
in the arms of those who had been observant of his move- 
ments, and who now placed themselves in his way. He was 
lifted into a carriage and taken home senseless, and for a 
fortnight lay hovering between life and death, under an at- 
tack of brain fever, the result of long and intense excite- 
ment, aided by the exposure he had encountered and the ex- 
ertions he had made on the night of his father's death. 
Youth triumphed over this attack, severe as it was. He was 
restored to life and consciousness consciousness of suffer- 
ing. The burden of his secret sorrow and apprehension doubt- 
less retarded his recovery. Often as he saw his mother, 
roused from her own abandonment to grief by his condition, 
bending over him with a tenderness in her eye which he had 
rarely seen there since his childhood, he turned away from her 
with a groan, which was the expression not of physical, "but of 
mental anguish, at the thought of how soon that tenderness 
would be succeeded by cold displeasure. Under the weight 
of this anticipation his own manner became cold and sullen. 
The affection of which he feared they would soon deem him 
undeserving the affection for which he believed himself in- 
debted solely to their ignorance lost all value in his eyes. 
Pity had given to the feelings of Alice for him a softness 
they had never known before, and he might now, it may be, 
have impressed on those feelings the character he desired. 
But even to her timid efforts to win his confidence, and 
soothe his sorrow, he opposed a chill reserve. 

A month had passed away since the death of Col Mon- 
troso. All marks of the storm had not disappeared ; more 
than one tree lay still prostrate where it had fallen, the 
sedge which had been borne by the advancing tide far 
beyond its usual limit had not yet been removed, and the 


carpenters and masons were still engaged in repairing the 
damage done to buildings. Nature now, however, wore a 
face of the serenest beauty. The waters of the bay slept 
tranquilly beneath an unclouded sky, the old oaks waved 
their gray drapery to a gentle breeze, and though October 
had come with its cool mornings and evenings, there were 
birds still chirping amid their branches, in the warmth of 
the mid-day sun. 

Donald sat in the library in which he had held his last 
conversation with his father, and looked with a heavy heart 
and languid eye upon the beauty surrounding him. He was 
alone, though the murmuring voices of his mother and aunt, 
Isabelle and Alice, came to his ear from the adjoining room, 
where they were engaged in the sad task of making up their 
mourning. He had stolen away from them under the pre- 
tence of writing letters. But he was not long alone, his 
mother entered bringing him a letter. He rose to receive 
it, and seeing the handwriting to be that of Robert Grahame, 
he turned to a window, and stood there to read it, while 
Mrs. Montrose seated herself in his vacant chair. An ex- 
clamation of dismay attracted her attention, and turning 
she saw him leaning against the casement, looking pale and 
faint. To her anxious question he replied in a feeble voice, 
and as if but half conscious to whom he spoke, " Richard 
Grahame is dead." 

" And what is there in his death to cause you such 
emotion, Donald?" 

Her tone of surprise aroused him. He hesitated but a 
moment, for he felt the time had come when he must either 
reveal all, or practise a duplicity from which his nature 
shrank with abhorrence. 

" Mother his life his testimony, was all that stood 
between me and ruin !" was his answer. 

' My son, you are not well." she said, as, standing beside 


him, she laid one hand tenderly upon his forehead, and 
sought to feel his pulse with the other. 

" You think I am ill, mother, that you are again listen- 
ing to the ravings of delirium ; but you are mistaken. Sit 
down by me, mother, listen to me with you I shall need 
no witness to my truth ; however you may condemn me, 
you will not doubt me, mother ?" 

" Certainly not, Donald ; the son of a Montrose and a 
Wharton, falsehood can have no part in you." 

" Thank you ! thank you for that, mother !" he exclaimed, 
as the color returned to his cheek, and the light to his eye. 
" Oh that I had told you months ago ! something might 
then have been done. Now " 

He paused as if in thought, and Mrs. Montrose asked, 
" And why did you not tell me, Donald ?" 

" Because I was a coward, mother ; because I dreaded 
your disdain of my weakness more than sword or bullet ; 
and even now," he said, as a flush rose to his brow, " I read 
that disdain in your eye." 

" You give a harsh name to the feeling, but I acknow- 
ledge, Donald, I cannot honor the man who does an act and 
fears to meet its consequences ; such were not your father's 
lessons :" her lips quivered, and her face grew pale at this 
first mention of the name of the dead ; but she shed no tear. 

Donald's eyes were more moist, as he answered, " Ah ! 
but he would have remembered mercy in his judgment : 
he would have said, were I making this confession to him, 
my son has been a boy, but now he shows the strength and 
courage of a man. Ah, mother ! if you only loved me as he 
did !" 

The mother's pale face flushed, and Donald thought for 
an instant that her eyes were moist ; but all emotion had 
disappeared, and she was again calm and pale, when she an- 
swered, " This is no question of affection. Donald ; I have 


declared my confidence in your truth, and I wait for your 

" Confession, indeed !" said Donald ; and beginning at 
the circumstances occurring at Newport, he revealed to his 
mother all with which the reader is already acquainted, of 
his connection with George Browne and Richard Grahame. 
He was interrupted but once. When he mentioned the post- 
obits, his mother, clasping her hands, exclaimed with start- 
ling vehemence, "And you could allow yourself to anticipate 
that ! Oh, Donald !" 

" Never : never, mother ; this was to me but a form of 
words ; satisfying a creditor, yet postponing an evil day, and 
shielding me from reproaches." 

" And now this man holds your notes for more than 
sixty thousand dollars, and against this claim you have no- 
thing to set but your simple word ?" said Mrs. Montrose, as 
her son concluded his long recital. 

" Which, however it may satisfy my mother and my 
friends, I can scarcely hope will prove a valid defence in a 
court of law." 

" I thought a gambling debt was irrecoverable in a court 
of justice." 

" You thought rightly, and for that very reason, it is a 
principle with gentlemen never to dispute a gambling debt. 
In this case, however, I have again no proof but my simple 
word, that the debt was contracted in gambling the notes 
are 'for value received.'" 

" I see no redress." 

" There is none ; a lawyer whom I consulted in Boston, 
and who expected from Richard Grahame's testimony more 
than I did, writes me his letter was inclosed in Robert 
Grahame's that he sees no possible line of defence which is 
tenable, under such circumstances." 

" And what do you intend ?" 


" To pay, as far as I can. this unjust claim, but to do so 
under protest of its injustice, and an avowal of my determi- 
nation to leave no means untried to prove the villain what 
he is." 

" Then, Montrose Hall passes into the hands of stran- 
gers !" Her eyes became fixed upon the distant graveyard 
Donald's followed them. 

" Oh mother !" lie exclaimed, " that is the worst. How 
can I outlive that thought !" 

" It shall not be," said his mother, with her gaze still 
fastened on that distant point, and speaking in the tone of one 
who registers a vow. " That shall be prevented," she added 
after a pause, turning to Donald, " but that is not the worst." 

" What worse can there be ?" he asked with surprise. 

" Have you thought of your people ; of those whom your 
father commended to you with his dying breath ? Have 
you thought what treatment they were likely to experience 
from this remorseless villain ?" 

" Oh, mother ! mother ! spare me !" cried Donald, as he 
started from his seat, and strode back and forth, with the 
pace of a caged lion. 

" Had we not better look the whole difficulty in the face, 
Donald? How shall we else provide for it?" 

" Provide for it ! How can that be done ?" 

" I cannot say now, but I think you had better send for 
Mr. Clarke and Mr. Symonds. Mr. Clarke has been named 
by your father as one of his executors. Mr. Somers, who 
drew the will and has it in his keeping, may assist us by his 
legal knowledge." 

To this, Donald had nothing to object, and messages re- 
questing the presence of these gentlemen were dispatched. 

" And now, have I your permission to make known what 
you have told me to Isabelle ?" 

Donald hesitated. 


" I see you are reluctant to permit this, but it must be, 

"And why, mother?" 

" Because, in order to do any thing that will be of ser- 
vice, in the present circumstances, I must be joined by Isa- 
belle, and she shall make no sacrifices and incur no risks, 
without a full acquaintance with the subject." 

" You and Isabelle make sacrifices ! incur risks ! and for 
me ? never !" exclaimed Donald. 

" It is not for you, Donald ; it is for the servants born 
in our house. Donald, could you bear to see him who prayed 
beside your dying father, the property of this man?" 

" Mother, how can you ask such a question ? Cato will 
never belong to any man he is free ; but were he not, do 
you suppose that such a man as Cato, known so well as he 
is, need look long for a master he likes ? There is not a 
gentleman in the county who would not gladly feuy him, and 
give us our own price for him." 

" That is true ; but there are others ; your father com- 
mended all to our care, and all must be cared for." 

Mrs. Montrose left the room as she spoke, and Donald 
remained sunk in gloomy silence. Every thing wore to him, 
a reproachful look : every thing seemed by its aspect to re- 
mind him how in his passionate abandonment, and selfish 
grasping after present release from the pang of disappointed 
desire, he had disregarded and flung to the winds his own 
obligations, and the well-being of others. There was no re- 
lease for him now ; the iron chain of necessity was upon him, 
and he must eat of the fruit of his own doings. And the de- 
sire, whose disappointment had driven him to this madness, 
had he not, in truth, interposed the most invincible obstacle 
to its gratification ? Two years hence would he have a home 
or a support to offer Alice ? home ! support ! where would 
she find them now? 


" Donald, I have brought you a biscuit and a glass of 
wine; you eat no breakfast this morning," said a gentle 
voice, and Alice stood before him with a small silver salver 
in her hand, and a subdued, patient sorrow in her face, which 
accorded well with her deep mourning dress. " You will 
take it since I have brought it to you, Donald," she added, 
while a slight color rose to her pale cheeks, at using such an 

Receiving the salver from her, he placed it on the table be- 
side him, saying, " Thank you. Alice, I will take it by and by." 
He could not reject what was so sweetly offered, yet the swell- 
ing at his throat warned him not to attempt to swallow. 

Alice did not leave him, as he had supposed she would, 
but after standing a moment, she drew a chair forward and 
seated herself; yet with a timid, hesitating manner, as if 
half doubting the propriety of the movement. 

" I have a letter from Mary Grahame, and I thought you 
would like to hear of them, Donald." 

" Well, what does she say ?" he asked, endeavoring to 
appear interested. 

" They have had some sorrow, too Richard Grahame is 

Alice could not speak of death, without a lowered tone, 
and saddened manner the shadow of his presence was too 
near her. 

" There is little sorrow in that ; men, who. like Richard 
Grahame, have brought grief and shame upon their families^ 
had better die," said Donald, bitterly. 

The gentle spirit of Alice was shocked. After a mo- 
ment's silence, she said, " I do not think with you, Donald ; 
they had better live to repent, and to repair the evil they 
have done to bring joy for the grief, and honor for the 

" And suppose they have also brought poverty to their 


homes such poverty as shuts out the hope of better things 
to come." 

" Shuts out hope ! that is impossible ; it is only death 
which is hopeless; and as to poverty, I think it must be a 
light ill, when there are loving hearts to bear it with, and 
for each other. Mr. Grahame thought me very silly for the 
fancy, I believe," she smiled and colored slightly, " but I 
did fancy once that I should have rather liked to be poor 
enough to work for my mother and Charles ; it must be so 
pleasant to give your time and thoughts, and as it were 
your very life, for those you love." 

There was a quiet enthusiasm in the eyes of Alice, as 
she spoke thus, which gave a new character to her beauty, 
and Donald, for a moment, forgot all but that. He was re- 
called to more painful memories by the entrance of his mo- 

Mrs. Montrose seated herself, with a preoccupied air, 
and Alice, with that quick perception which we call tact, 
felt that her presence was not just then desired, and rising, 
she said, " I came to bring Donald a biscuit and a glass of 
wine, aunt ; perhaps yo\i can induce him to take them." 

Mrs. Montrose looked at Alice while she spoke, but she 
evidently did not hear her. There was a stern concentra- 
tion in her manner, which showed even to the inexperienced 
Alice, that her whole thoughts, nay, her whole being, was 
engrossed by one subject. As Alice passed from the room, 
her eyes followed her till the closing door shut out her form, 
and Donald was startled at the sternness of those eyes as 
they returned to him. 

Pride had been through life the ruling passion of Mrs. 
Montrose ; a pride not altogether ignoble, for it was based- 
not on wealth, or position, or any accidental circumstances, 
but on the blood which, according to her belief, had given 
her, as a birthright, nobility of nature. Her principles of 


morality were embodied in the one command, to do nothing 
unworthy of her birth. Her religion was a name, or at best 
consisted in a regular attendance on the ordinances of the 
church, and a correct repetition of its forms of service, which 
she considered as a proper example to those below her. And 
to those below her, let it be said to her honor, that Mrs. 
Montrose was ever kind and courteous. Her very pride se- 
cured her from arrogance to those who did not oppose her. 
In Col. Montrose, she had reverenced the representative of 
a noble name, who had added by his own high qualities to 
its lustre, and her husband in Donald, she had seen the 
union of two families of equal claims to respect, and with 
even more of pride than of tenderness she had gazed upon 
his boyish beauty, marked his opening talents, and predicted 
for him a high career. As this was best attained in Amer- 
ica in political life, his education at West Point and conse- 
quent entrance into the army had disappointed her ; but she 
comforted herself with the belief that the required two years 
of service, would be quite enough to wear out his military 
ardor, and that with his connection and fortune, a transition 
to a distinguished place in the polifical world would be 
easily secured. On this pride and these designs, the com- 
munication of the morning had fallen with crushing weight. 
She knew enough of the value of her husband's property, to 
be aware that the clear one-third of it left to Donald, in ad- 
dition to Montrose Hall, which was considered his by right, 
would not more than pay the amount of the debt, thus in- 
iquitously charged upon him. Montrose Hall she determined 
to redeem at any sacrifice ; it was identified with the family ; 
they could not and must not be severed. Better for a Mon- 
trose to live there on bread and water, than elsewhere on 
luxuries. But, as she had said to Donald, this was not all 
that must be redeemed ; the dependents of the family, those 
whose fathers, and whose fathers' fathers had served them. 


must be saved from the grasp of the stranger. In this last 
determination, it is true, there mingled a more womanly feel- 
ing than pride, a feeling compounded of reverence for the 
husband, whose dying breath had commended them to her 
care, and of compassionate interest in those who had so long 
called her mistress. Yet it cannot be denied, that these 
better feelings found support in the knowledge that no step 
was so unpopular at the South, when voluntary, or consid- 
ered so indicative of utter ruin, when involuntary, as the 
sale of slaves. These must be saved then, though it should 
be done by so burdening the whole property, that her re- 
maining years of life, and the youth of her daughter should 
wear away in poverty and toil. But as she came to this re- 
solution, a hatred of the author of that calamity which had 
forced her to it, arose in her heart, so bitter and so stern, 
that but for the woman in her nature, and the refinement 
impressed on her by education and habit, it might have be- 
come murderous. Donald's faults were overlooked, or ex- 
cused as the result of coquetry in Alice, who shared with 
Mr. Browne her anger and her hatred. " She has his blood 
in her veins ; she shares his nature soft and serpent-like 
she has stung the hand that fed her." 

Fired with such thoughts, she had sought Donald again, 
to communicate to him her determination, and the ready as- 
sent of Isabelle to join her in any act necessary to save her 
brother from suffering, and her home from desecration, when 
she found Alice with him. 

" Donald," she said, as Aliee disappeared, and her voice 
was hard and stern as her eyes, " Donald, you must not 
marry her." 

" Not marry Alice ! and why ?" 

" She has his blood in her veins. We shall have little left 
but pure blood an untainted name : I will not consent that 
this shall be endangered. You must renounce her or me." 


" Mother, do not add to my misery. Remember how my 
father loved Alice." 

" He did not know what we do. I repeat, if you marry 
her you renounce me." 

" Do not let us speak of it now, mother. You know that 
for two years I am forbidden by Alice herself to speak of 
love, and then," he paused. 

" What then ?" asked his mother in the same tone she 
had hitherto used. 

" It may be that, even should you relent, my own poverty 
may compel me in honor to release her. Now let us talk of 
other things." 

" It is time, for here come Mr. Clarke, and Mr. Symonds," 
and following her glance to the window, which looked toward 
the road, Donald saw those gentlemen approaching, attended 
by the messenger who had been dispatched for them ; their 
residences being only at the distance of two or three miles 
from Montrose Hall. He rose to meet, and welcome them, 
but his mother placed herself in his way. 

" Hear me, Donald," she said ; " for the sake of this our 
home, for your own sake, for the sake of the many whose whole 
fate rests on you, promise me never to marry that girl. Hear 
me, hear me, ere you speak," she exclaimed as with an indig- 
nant gesture he would have interrupted her " refuse me this, 
and I leave you to your fate ; promise, and this man's claim 
shall be met without sacrifice of any thing you hold dear, 
though to meet it the whole estate must be heavily burdened." 

" And you and Isabelle suffer for my fault ! mother, I 
thought you knew me better. I will consent to that on no 
terms, much less will I sacrifice Alice to secure it." 

There was no flash of the eye, no rising color to tell of 
the passion at her heart ; but the lines of her face became 
yet more rigidly set. Whatever she might have said was 
prevented by the entrance of the visitors. 


Mr. Symonds supposing that the summons to him was 
probably for the purpose of hearing the will of Col. Montrose 
read, had brought it with him. and both gentlemen wore the 
gravity of manner becoming such an occasion. Mr. Symonds 
haying adverted to it. Donald observed that this had not 
been his object, but that it would be as well, perhaps, to pre- 
face the business on which he had taken the liberty of re- 
questing their presence, by reading the will. 

" It will be necessary I suppose to call my sister," he said, 
referring to Mr. Symonds. 

" Yes, and Mrs. Charles Montrse and her daughter, 
who are both mentioned in the will." Donald went himself for 
them, and returned followed by Isabelle and Alice, his aunt 
leaning on his arm. We will not linger to describe the feel- 
ings of the listeners as Mr. Symonds proceeded to read that 
instrument, in which, through all its legal technicalities, the 
kind heart of the testator was plainly manifested. After a few 
trifling legacies had been named, as marks of esteem and affec- 
tion to particular friends, Montrose Hall was bequeathed to 
Donald, with the expression of a wish that it might be always 
the home of a Montrose, and the remainder of his property, 
real and personal, was divided equally between his wife and 
children, with the exception of ten thousand dollars in 
United States Bank stock, which was left to Mrs. Charles 
Montrose, subject to her sole control during her life, and to 
be the property of Charles at her death, should he survive 
her ; should he die before her, it was at her death to belong 
" to my beloved niece, Alice, who should have had an equal 
share with my daughter in my fortune, as she has ever had 
in my affection, had I not believed her to be already well 
provided for." 

At this clause Donald sought his mother's eyes, but in 
vain ; she kept them steadily fixed on the floor. 

Cato was left free, and the ground on which his house 


stood, with an acre around it, was to be given to him should 
he remain at Montrose Hall, or an equivalent in money 
should he choose to go elsewhere. 

The consultation of Donald with Mr. Clarke and Mr. 
Symonds, after the reading of the will was finished, was pro- 
ductive of little satisfaction. Convinced as even the astute 
and somewhat suspicious lawyer was of the simple truth of 
Donald's statement, he was obliged to confess that it would 
be hardly possible to hope for a verdict in his favor from a 
jury, when the only evidence to oppose to his genuine, undis- 
puted signature, was his own word or even oath, in a case in 
which his own interests were so fatally involved. 

" Had not this Richard Grahame died so inopportunely, 
and could you, as you think, have proved by his testimony 
that there was fraud in the one note, it would have gone far 
towards obtaining you a verdict on the other ; but as it is " 

"As it is, you think I must pay the penalty of my folly 
in my ruin;" said Donald sadly, as Mr. Symonds paused, 
apparently unwilling to complete his sentence. 

" We will wait at least till this man makes his demand 
before we talk of ruin,' 7 said Mr. Symonds, endeavoring, though 
hardly with success, to speak cheerfully. 

" We need not wait, the demand has been made ;" said 
Donald as he drew from his pocket, and handed to Mr. So- 
mers, a letter received from Mr. Browne two days before. 

It was a formal demand for the payment of sixty -five 
thousand dollars, the amount of the two notes already so 
often referred to. 

" Suppose you let me answer this," said Mr. Symonds ; " I 
may intimidate the man into some concession. I have al- 
ways found a knave easily frightened." 

" Have you so?" exclaimed Mr. Clarke, who had hither- 
to kept silence in deference to his lawyer friend. " Then-tell 
him that he will have to fight every man in the county, and 


James Clarke of Fairhope at the head of them, before he 
can put his hand on a dollar of the Montrose property that 
does not rightly belong to him." 

u We will leave that threat," said Mr. Symonds, with a 
smile at his friend's literal understanding of intimidation, 
" till he comes among us, lest he should have you bound over 
to keep the peace, and so deprive us of your support when 
most needed." 

To the proposal of Mr. Symonds to write to Mr. Browne 
for him, Donald readily assented. The letter was dispatch- 
ed, but three weeks must pass before an answer could be re- 
ceived. Three weeks of suspense what an age ! 


D. Appleton <k <7o.' Publications. 

MANZONL THE BETROTHED LOVEES. 2 vols., 12mo., cloth, 

$1 50c. ; paper, $1. 
MARGARET MAITLAND ; (Some Passages in the Life of). 12mo., 

paper, 50c. ; cloth, 75c. 

paper cover, reduced to 25c. 

cover, 50c. ; 23 plates ; boards, $1. 

Mortimer. 12mo., cloth, 75c. 
NATHALIE. A Tale. By Julia Karanagh, author of "Woman in 

France," "Madeleine," &c. 12mo., paper, 75c. ; cloth, $1. 
NORMAN LESLIE. A Tale. By G. C. H. 12mo., cloth, 75c.; 

paper, 50c. 

TER. By S. R. W. 12mo., paper, 50c. ; cloth, 75c. 
SEW ELL, E. M. THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 12mo., cloth, 75c.; 

paper, 50c. 

AMY HERBERT. A Tale. 12mo., cloth, 75c. ; paper, 50c. 

GERTRUDE. A Tale. 12mo., cloth, 75c. ; paper, 50c. 

LANETON PARSONAGE. A Tale. 8 vols., 12mo., 

cloth, $2 25c. ; paper, $1 50c. 
MARGARET PERCIVAL. 2 vols., cloth, $1 50 ; paper 

cover, $1. 

WALTER LORIMER, r and other Tales. 12mo., illus., 75c. 

JOURNAL OF A TOUR, For the Children of a Village 

School. In Three Parts, paper, each 25c. 

Novel. 8vo., paper, 88c. 

SHANNONDALE. A Novel. 8vo., paper, 25c. 


A Novel. 8vo., paper, 38c. 
TO LOVE AND TO BE LOVED. A Story. By A. S. Roe, Author 

of " James Montjoy," &c. 12mo., cloth, 63c. ; paper, 38c. 
USES (The) OF SUNSHINE. By S. M., Author of " The Maiden 

Aunt," Ac. 12mo., paper, 50c. ; cloth, 75c. 
VILLAGE NOTARY. A Romance of Hungarian Life. Translated 

from the Hungarian of Eotvos. 8vo., paper, 25c. 

J). Appleton ifc Uo.'s Publication*. 

A&UILAR, <?. A MOTHEK'S EECOMPENSE. 12mo., paper, 

50c. ; cloth, 75c. 
WOMEN OF ISEAEL. Two vols. 12mo., paper, $1; 

cloth, $1 50c. 

VALE OF CEDAES. 12mo., cloth, 75c. ; paper, 50o. 

WOMAN'S FEIENDSHIP, cloth, 75c. ; paper, 50o. 

ADRIAN ; OB, THE CLOUDS or THE MIND. By G. P. E. James and 

M. B. Field. 12mo., cloth, $1. 

CATCHPOLE. 8vo., 2 plates, paper cover, 25c. 
DUMAS' 1 MAEGUEEITE DE VALOIS. A Novel. 8vo., 25c. 
DUPUY, A. E. THE CONSPIEATOE. 12mo cloth, 75o. ; 

paper, 50c. 

FJ^LEN PARRY ; OR, TRIALS OF THE HEART. 12mo., 63c. ; paper, 38c, 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. A Tale by Lady Fullerton. 12mo., paper, 

50c. ; cloth, 75c. 

Mrs. Saymore. 12mo., paper, 50c. ; cloth, 75c. 

J 10 ME IS HOME; A DOMESTIC STORY. 12mo., paper, 50c. ; cloth, 75c. 
HELOISE; OR, THE UNREVEALED SECRET. By Talvi. 12mo., cloth, 

75c. ; paper, 50c. 

paper, 38c. ; cloth, 50c. 

10 ; A TALE OF THE ANCIENT FANE. By Barton. 12mo., 75c. 

Parts, paper, 75c. ; cloth, $1. 

Talvi, author of " Heloiso," &c. 12mo., paper, 38c. ; cloth, 680. 
LOVER, SAMUEL. HANDY ANDY. 8vo., paper cover, 60o. 

L. S. D., TREASURE TROVE. 8vo., paper, 25c. 


Kate. 12mo., paper, 50c. ; cloth, 75c. 

cloth, 75c. ; paper, 50c. 
AUNT KITTY'S TALES. 12mo., cloth, 75c. ; paper, 50o. 


doth, $1. 

MAIDEN A UNT (The). A Story. By S. M. 12mo., paper, 50o. ; 
cloth, 75c. 

D. APPLITON <fe COMPANY kave just ready the 



about it at once," " Mary Elliott," &c. One neat volume 12mo. 



One neat volume 12mo., paper cover or cloth. 


for the Children of a Village School. By the Author of " Amy Herbert," 

"Gertrude," "Laneton Parsonaare," <fcc., &c. In Three Parts. 

(Part I. ready.) 


awmplary for Acts of Piety and Charity. By JULIA KAVANAOH, Authof 

of " Woman in France," " Nathalie," &c. One volume 12mo., 

cloth, 75 cants. 

Eecently Published. 

A Domestic Tale. One volume 12mo., paper, 50 cents ; cloA, 75 


And Buds and Blossoms; or, Leaves from Aunt Minnie's Portfolio. By 
QKORGH A. HULSJE. One volume 12mo., paper, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 



Of Sunny niiR Written by Herself. One volume 12mo. , paper, 60 
cloth. 75 cent*. 






One volume 12mo., paper cover, 60 cents ; cloth, 75 centg. 

" The scenes of this work are portrayed with a delicacy and a natural 
pathos that give to them an irresistible attraction." Courier fy Enquirer. 

' It deserves, and will doubtless receive, an extended circulation, and will 
do good wherever it may eo." Newark Adv. 

" It is a romance that the most fastidious objector to novel reading might 
peruse with advantage as well as with pleasure." Western Palladium. 

" We are disposed to rank this work, in point of talent, more highly than 
ny of Miss Sewell's previous volumes." 

"It is pleasant to recommend a volume like this, which every mother 
can place in her daughter's hand with the certainty that the lessons it teaches 
must strengthen within her every virtuous thought, and better prepare her to 
pass worthily through the conflict of life. We cannot do the reading public 
better service than to recommend the circulation of this work." Albany 
State Register. 


Edited by the Rev. WM. SEWELL, B. A. 2 vols. 12mo.. paper cover, 1 ; 
cloth, 81 50. 


Edited by the Rev. WM. SEWELL, B. A. 12nio., cloth, 75 cents; paper 
cover, 50 cents. 



Edited by th Rev. WM. SBWELL, B. A. 1 TO]. 12mo., cloth, 75 cento ; pap* 
cover, 50 cents. 


Edited by the Rev. WM. SKWELL, B. A. 3 rols. 12mo.. cloth, $2 25: pap 
cover, $1 50. 


12mo., cloth, 75 cents. 


One volume IGmo., 50 cent* 

D, ApptetQH & Company's Publication 


APPIJSTON'S Library Manual. Svo. I COGGESHALL'S Voyages to V 
Half bom: . . riow Parts of UeWcHrld. ilius. $1 *5. 

tern Tr 
Map*. : 


Southern, and Wes- 

"s Guide. With colored 

Northern and Eastern 

Traveller's Guide. Twenty - i'"ur Maps. 
1 8mo. f 1 25. 

New and Complete 

United States Guide-Book for Travellers. 
Numerous Maps. 18mo. $2. 

New- York City and 

Vicinity Guide. Maps. 18 eta. 

: New- York City Map, 

fr>r PooliPt. 12 ots. 

AGN ELL'S Book of Chess. A com- 

With llliibtra- 

ANDERSON, WM. Practical" Mer- 

ranlilr C'-ri spomlence. I'^mo. *]. 

ABNOLD,Dr. Miscellaneous Wcrks. 

8vo. $2. 

History of Rome. 

New Edition. 1 rol., 8vo. $3. 

History of the Later 

Roman Commonwealth. 8vo. $2 50. 

Lectures on Modern 

History. Edited by Prot. Reed. $1 25. 

Life and Correspond- 
ence. By the Rev. A. P. Stanley. 2d 
Edition. 8vo. $2. 

AMELIA'S Poems. 1 vol., 12mo. 

Cl.tii. A! -25 ; ci!t edsrs, $1 50. 

ANSTED'S Gold-Seeker's Manual. 

12mo. Paper, 25 PIS. 

BOWEN, E. United States Post- 
Office Guide. Map. 8vo. Paper, $1 ; 
cloth, ?1 25. 

BROOKS' Four Months among the 

Gold-Finders in ' 'iilifornia. -25 cts. 

BRYANT'S What I Saw in Califor- 
nia. With Ma]., i -21110. 1 -25. 

BROWNELL'S Poems. 12mo. 75 c. 
CALIFORNIA Guide-Book. Em- 

bracing Fremont and Emory's Travels in 
California. -n. Map. Paper, SO eta 

OARLYLE'S Life of Frederick Schil- 

ler, ll'lll 

CHAPMAN'S Instructions to Young 

Marksmen on the Improved An 
lorn... Illustrated. *1 -25. 

i Rifle. 

OOOLEY, A. J. The Book of Use- 

ful Knowledge. Conta 

6,00(1 Practical 


Receipts in all branches ot' Arts, Manufac- 
tures, and Trades. 8vo. Illustrated. $1-25. 

OOOLEY, J. E. The American in 

Eeypt. f?vo. Illustrated. $-2. 

OOf F, Dr. History of Puritanism. 

12m-.. -1. 

CORNWALL, N. E. Music as It 

W.-is. uni. tis It Is. 12im. 68 ot. 

COUSIN'S Course of Modern Philo- 
sophy. Translated by Wight. 2 Vol., 


CHA. With 18 Steel Engravings. lm<X 
Cloth, $1 60. 

EMORY'S Notes of Travels in Call 

tornia. 8vo. 

ELLIS, Mrs. 
12mo. 50 cts. 



25 cU. 

omen of England 
Hearts and Homes ; or 

Social Distinctions. A bu>ry. Two 1'iirta. 
Svo. Pannr, *1 ; cloth, *l 50. 

EVELYN'S Life of Mra. Godolphin. 

of Oxford, iumo. 

Edited by the Bishop f ( 
Cloth, 5 i ou. ; paper, 38 cts. 

FAY,T. S. Ulric; or, The Voices. 

12iii". 75 cts. 

FOSTER'S Essays on Christian Mo- 
FREMONT'S "Exploring Expedition 

to Ori'irm and California. -^5 cts. 

FROST, Prof. Travels in Africa. 

12mo. Illustrated. $1. 

FALKNER'S Farmer's Manual 
GARLAND'S Life of John Ean- 

d'.lph. -2 Vols., 12irv>. Portraits, *2 50. 

GILFILLAN, GEO. Gallery of 

Literary Portraits. Second Series. 12ino. 
Paper, 75 cts. ; cloth, $1. 

The Bar is of 

the Bible. l->mo. Cloth, 50 cts 

GOLDSMITH'S Vicar of WakefleJd. 

1-21110. Illustrated. 75 cts. 

GOULD, E. 8. "The Very Age," 

A Comedy. 18mo. Paper, 38 CM. 

GRANT'S Memoirs of An American 

Lady. 12mo. Clrrth, 75 cts. ; pap-r, Siicts. 

GUIZOT'S Democracy in France. 

12mo. Paper cover, -25 c's. 

History of Civilization. 

4 V,.!s. Cloth, *3 50. 

History of the English 

Revolution of ItWo. Cloth, *1 -25. 

HULL, Gen. Civil and Military 

Lite. Edited by. T.F.Clark-. Sv,,. ?>. 

HQBSON. My Uncle Hobson and L 


RIS. A Drama in l-'ive Arts. From lh 
German by G. .1. Adl-r. limn. 75 cts. 



mplary for Piety ana Cha- 

nity, exemplary for 
rity. l-2mo. Cloth, 75 cts. 

KENNY'S Manual of Chess. 18mo. 
KOHLRAUSCH'S Complete History 

ofiermany. 8v<>. *1 5o. 

KIP'S Christmas Holidays at Rom& 

LAMB, CHAS. Final 

Edited by Talfmrd. l-2nu 

LAMARTINE'S Confidential D1. 
clo*u>i ; or. Maaioira of Mv Youth. M 


'5 ct 


Appleion & Company's Publications. 

LEE, E. B. Life of Jean Paul P. , SCOTT'S Marmion. 16mo. 37 ctu 

Richter. l-2nio. $1 -25. 

LEGEE'S History of Animal Mag- 

n-tisin. l-2mo. $1. 


TIN'ENTS. By R. M. Ward. l'2mo. 
Cloth, $1. 

LOED, W. W. Poems. 12mo. 75 c. 

; Christ in Hades. 

MACKINTOSH, M. J. Woman in 

America. CVth, i2 cts. ; paper, 38 cts. 

MAllON'S (Lord) Histoiy of Eng- 
land. Edited by Prof. Reed. 2 Vols , 
Svo. $4. 

MICHELET'S History of France. 

2Vols.,8vo. $350. 

Life of Martin Lu- 


. 75ot9. 

- History of Roman 

Republic. 12mo. *1. 

- The Pec pie. 12mo. 

Cloth. 63 ds. ; paper, 38 cts. 


and Short Whist. 18mo. Cl >th, gilt, 45 ots. 

MILES on the Horse's Foot ; How 

to Keep it Sound. l-2mo. Cuts. '25 cts. 

MILTON'S Paradise Lost 38 cts. 

MOOEE, C. C. Life Of George Cast- 
riot, King of Albania. 12mo. Cloth,?!. 

NAPOLEON, Life of, from the 

Frencl. of Laurent de 1'Ardechee. 2 Vols. 
in 1. 8vo. 500 Cuts. Im. mor., $3. 

GATES, GEO. Tables of Sterling 

Exchange, from 1 to .10,000 from l-8th 
of one per cent, to twelve and a half per 
cent., by eighths, etc., etc. 8vo. $3. 

-- Interest Tables at 6 

per cent, per Annum. 8vo. $-2 

- Abridged Edit $125. 
-- Interest Tables at 7 

per cent, per Annum. 8vo. $'2. 

- Abridged Edit $125. 

- - Sterling Interest Ta- 

bles at 5 pur cent, per Annum, from 1 to 
10,000. 4 to. $5. 

O'CALLAGHAN'S History of New- 

York under the Dutch. 2 Vols. $5. 

POWELL'S Living Authors of 

England. 12mo. $1. 


STATES; Its Duties, &c. 12mo. fl. 

OEID'S New English Dictionary, 

with Derivations. 1 -21110. $1. 

EICHAEDSON on Dogs. Their 

Historv, Treatment, &c. Cuts. 25 cts. 


plete Etlitinn. 3:)OCuta. 8vo. $150. 
ROWAN'S History of the French 

Revolution. 2 Vols. in,. 63 cts. 

BOYEE'S Modern Domestic Cook- 
ery. 1 -2mo. Paper cover, 75 cts. ; bd., $1. 

SCOTT'S Lady of the Lake. 88 

Lay of the Last MinstreL 

SELECT Italian Comedies. Trans- 
lated. K-rno. 75 cts. 
SPE AGUE'S History of the Florid* 

War. Map and Plates. 8vo. $-2 50. 

SHAKSPEAEE'S Dramatic Works 

and Life. 1 Vol., 8vo. i?-2. 

SOUTHEY'S Life of Oliver Crom- 
well. ISmo. Ciotli, 38 cts. 

STEWAET'S Stable Economy. Edit- 
ed by A. 13. All-n. l-2mo. Illustrated. $1 

SOUTHGATE (Bishop). Visit to 

the Syrian Church. 1-^ino. 1. 
SQUIEE'S Nicaragua; Its People 

Antiquities, &c. Maps and Plates. 2 Vols., 

STEVENS' Campaigns of the Eio 

Gr:i!-,iie nnd Mexico. 8vo. Paper, 38 cts. 

SWETT, Dr. Treatise on the Dis- 

e:.s .,,) :h- Clipst. 8vo. $3. 

TAYLOE, Gen. Anecdote Book, 

Letters, &c. Svo. -2.5 cts. 

TUCKEEMAN'S Artist Life. Bio- 

graphical Sketches of American Painters. 
1-21110. Cloth, 75 cts. 

TAYLOE'S Manual of Ancient and 

Modern History. Edited by Prof, lleurv. 
Svo. Cloth, $-225; sheep, 2 50. 

THOMSON on the Food of Auiinala 

and Man. Cloth, 50 cts. ; paper, 33 cts. 

TYSON, J. L. Diary of a Physician 

in California. 8vo. Paper, 25 els. 

WAYLAND'S Eecollections of Eeal 

Life in England. 1 81110. 31 eta. 

WILLIAMS' Isthmus of Tehuan te- 
pee ; Its Climate, Productions, sc. Maps 
and Plates. 2 Vols., Svo. $3 50. 

WOMAN'S Worth; or, Hints to 

Raise the Female Character. 18mo. 38 cts. 

WARNER'S Eudimental Lessons in 

Music. 18mo. 50 cts. 

WYNNE, J. Lives of Eminent 

Litemry and Scientific Men of America. 
l-2mo. Cloth, $1. 


hide. An Autobiographical Poem. 12mo. 
Cloth, |1. 


ANTHON'S Law Study ; or, Guid/w 

to the Study of the Law. Svo. $3. 

HOLCOMBE'S Digest of the De<^ 

Bions of the Supreme Court of the Unit 
States, from its commencement to the pt- 
sent time. Large 8vo. Law sheep, $6. 

Supreme Court Lead- 
ing Cases in Commercial Law. Svo. $4. 

Law of Debtor and 

Creditor in the United States and Canad* 
8vo. $4. 

SMITH'S Compendium of Mercan- 
tile Law. With large American additicw* 
by Holi-ombe and Gholson. 8v>. $4 60. 

1). Appteuni ( GVwtpwwy'a Pvblieatfottt. 


AMELIA'S Poems. Beautifully Illustrated by Robert W. \Vcii 

8vo. Cloth, $2 50 ; gilt edges, $3 ; imperial mor., $.3 50 ; morocco, $4. 
BYRON'S Complete Poetical Works. Illustrated with elegant 

Steel Engravings and Portrait 1 vol., Svo., fine paper. Cloth, $3 

cloth, gilt leaves, $4 ; morocco extra, $6. 
Cheaper Edition, with Portrait and 4 Plates. Tm morocco, $3 ; with Por 

trait and Vignette only, sheep or cloth, $2 50. 

HALLECK'S Complete Poetical Works. Beautifully Illus- 
trated with fine Steel Engravings and a Portrait New Edition, Svo. 
Cloth, $2 50 ; cloth extra, gilt edges, $3 ; morocco extra, $5. 

MOORE'S Complete Poetical Works. Illustrated with very 
fine Steel Engravings and a Portrait 1 vol., 8vo., fine paper. Cloth, 
$3 ; cloth, gilt edges, $4 ; morocco, $6. 

Cheaper Edition, with Portrait and 4 Plates. Im. morocco, $3; with Por- 
trait and Vignette only, sheep or cloth, $2 50. 

SOUTHEY'S Complete Poetical Works. With several beauti- 
ful Steel Engravings. 1 vol., Svo., fine paper. Cloth, $3 ; gilt edges 
$4 50 ; morocco, $6 50. 

for Throe Centuries. Edited by Eufus W. Griswokl Illustrated with 
12 Steel Engravings. Svo. Cloth, $2 50; gilt edges, $3; morocrt 
extra, $4 50. 

Cabinet Editions, at greatly Reduced Prices. 

BUTLER'S HUDIBRAS. With Notes by Nash. Elustratec 

with Portraits. 16mo. Cloth, $1 ; gilt edges, $1 50 ; moroc. extra, $2 
BURNS' Complete Poetical Works. With Life, Glossary, fec 

16mo. Cloth, illustrated, $1 ; gilt edges, $1 50 ; morocco extra, $2. 
CAMPBELL'S Complete Poetical Works. Illustrated with 

Steel Engravings and r ^ortrait 16mo. Cloth, $1 ; gilt edges, $1 50; 

morocco extra, $2. 

COWPER'S Complete Poetical Works. With Life, tfcc. 2 vola. 

In 1. Cloth, $1 ; gilt, $1 50 ; morocoo extra, $2. 
DANTE'S Poems. Translated by Carey. Illustrated with 8 

fine Portrait and 12 Engravings. 16mo. Cloth, $1 ; gilt edges, $1 60 

morocco extra, $2. 

HEMANS' Complete Poetical Works. Edited by her Sister 
2 vols., 16mo. With 10 Steel Plates. Cloth, $2 ; gilt edges, $3 ; mo 
roooo extra, $4. 

MILTON'S Complete Poetical Works. With Life, <fec. 16mo 
Cloth, illustrated, $1 ; gilt edges, $1 50 ; morocco extm, $2. 

TASSO'S Jerusalem Delivered. Translated by Wiften. Illus- 
trated. 1 vol., 16mo. Uniform with " Dante." Cloth, $1 ; gilt edgea 
$1 50 ; morocco extra, $2. 

KCOTT'S Poetical Works. With Life, tfcc. Cloth, 16mo., illus 
traced, $1 ; gilt, $1 50 morocco extra, $2. 

Appleton & Company's Publication*. 


Cl tli. -J5 c-ii's 


lusiniten 1 . 18mo. Cloth, 25 cents. 


Cloth, 25 cents. 

Uncle Amerel's Story Books. 



THE COUNTRY. IIlns. IKmo. Cloth, 25 c. 

trated. 18mo Cloth, 25 cents. 

Mary Hewitt's Juvenile Tales. 

New Editions boimd togetlier, entitled : 


16ino. 75 ''ems. 


R1ES. 161110. 15 cent 

MY JUVENILE DAY&, and othe 

Tales. 16ino. 15 rents. 


AND GIRLS. 75 ents. 

Library for My Young Countrymen. 

This Series is edited by the popular author 
uniform in s 


SJVilTH. ,Bv the Author of " Uncle Philip." 
38 cents. " 


BOONK. My do. 38 cents. 



I/ENRY HUDSON. By the Author of 
" Uncle Phil' ..." 38 cents. 

of " Uncle Philip's Tales." The volumes ar 
ize and style. 


HERNAN CORTEZ. By the Author of 
"Unc!e rh ; 'i>>." 3^ 


Virginia, liy .Mary Uertn;de. : i-fn'S. 




CROMWELL. 38 cents. 

Tales for the People and their Children. 

CROFTON BOYS (The) By Harriet 

Coplev. 38 cents. 



tlhs. ;;- 

Ahiw 1 1. . W itt. ^Scents. 


MINI). Many Plates. 38 cunts. 


Ellis. 3S ,'fiits. 


Uowitt. 33 cents. 

By Mr& 


MAKER, liv Mary Hewitt. 38 "ruts. 


SENSE. By do. 38 cents. 


By H. Murtineau. 28 cents. 


Kills. 88 cents. 


.Mary ll-witt. !',S CP;HS. 


l'.v '!'. S. Arthur. 38 cents. 


Sand ham. 38 cents. 


.Mary Huwitt. 38 cents. 


liv do. 38 cts. 


38 cents. 



rles Burdett. 38 


cliokk?. 88 cent*. 


OCEAN WORK, Ancient an^. Mo* 

dern. By J. H. Wright. 

D. Appleton & Company & Publications. 


Published in Elegant F. 

POETIC LACON; or, Aphorisms 

N. 3* rents. 

BOND'S Golden Maxims. 81 cents. 
CLARKE'S Scripture Promises. 

Complete. 3S cents. 

ELIZABETH; or, The Exiles of 

GOLDSMITH'S Vicar of Wakefleld. 
a> e. nis. 

Essays. 3S cents. 


HANNAH MORE'S Private Devo- 

tioi . 31 cents. 

Practical Piety. 

II EM A NS ' Domestic Affections. 81 

HOFFMAN'S Lays of the Hudson, WILSON'S Sacra Privata. 31 cents. 
Ac. 38 cents. YOUNG'S Night Thoughts. 88 cts. 

mi, with Frontispiece*. 

JOHNSON'S History of Basaelu 

38 cents. 


MOOSE'S Lallah Rookh. 88 cents. 
Melodies. Complete. 8! 

POLLOK'S Course of Time. RS ctA. 

THOMSON'S Seasons. 38 cents, 

OF LOVE. Ea.-h SI cents. 



AUNT FANNY'S Christmas Stories. 

AUNT KITTY'S Tales. By Maria 
AMERICAN HistoricaiTales. 16mo. 

BOYS' MANUAL. Containing the 

Principle ot Conduct, &c, 18mo. 5u cts. 
- - STORY BOOK. 16mo. 75 a 
CARAVAN (The). A collection of 

Popular Eastern Talcs. 16mo. Illustrated. 


ings at Aunt Elsie's. Beautifully lllus- 

FRID A Y b " CHRISTIAN ; or, The 

Firat-B,.rn on Pitcaini's Island. 16mo. 

GIRLS' MANUAL. Containing the 

-STORY B66k? l 16mo. 75 c. 
GUIZOT'S Young Student 3 vols. 

. Picture and 

Verse Book. Commonly called Ott/ Spec- 
ter's Fable Book. Illustrated with IdO 
Plates. Cheap Editi. n, 50 cents; cloth, 63 
eei'U; f?ilt leaves. 75 cents. 


Grandfather Merryman. Colored Plates. 
18mo. 75 cents. 


Bv .M'S. < :..iinati Mill". 

JOAN OF ARC, Story ot. By R. M. 

Ev-!!is. \Vitli-_-3ilUis. Uiino. 7octs. 



By Suiui) Pindar lllus. 16mi). 75 ctg. 


ILLUSTRIOUS MEN. Him... 7o--ts. 

LOUISE; or, The Beauty of Integ- 
rity ; and ..I her Tales. Itimu. Boards, ol 

MARRYATT'S "Settlera in Cauad* 

2 vols. in 1. ets. 

Scenes in Africa 9 

'Is. in 1 . 6-2 cents. 

LkUy at Woodleigh. BySussmPii.dar. 1 
vol.. ]r,m". <'l,,th". 75 centj; .-I ith. jftlt, fi. 


Mice. Mm,, lllr.s. ri-J rents. 

HANNAH MORE'S Village Tales. 
WILLIAM TELL, the Patriot oi 

SwuzerUuid. To winch is tuided, Aiuireai 
Hofer, the "Tell" of the Tyrol. Cloth, 50 
cents; half, 3<* co-its. 

Gould. Irtniu. ii'A o.-nta. 


Great Authors and Great 1'aiiuere. F.uu 
parts in 1 vol. r]-th. '5 cts ; frill odor., fl. 

PUSS IN BOOTS. Finely Illufr 
toted by Otto Specter. Square iSmo. Bd. 
25 cts. ; cloth, Ss o-s. ; -xira -rilt, i'.;i eta. 




llliistiated. ltm i. ":, f.*. 


D. Appleton & Company's Publications 


A.RN OLD'S Eugby School Sermons. 16mo. 50 cents. 
ANTHON'S Catechism on the Homilies. ISmo. 6 cents. 

Early Catechism for Young Children. ISmo. 6 cents. 

A. KEMPIS, Of the Imitation of Christ. 16mo. Complete Edition. 75 eta. 
BURNETTS History of the Reformation. Edited by Dr. Narea. 8 

On the Thirty-nine Articles. Edited by Page. 8vo. $2. 

BRADLEY'S Family and Parish Sermons. Complete in 1 vol. $2. 

ORUDEN'S Concordance to the New Testament. 12ino. 50 cents. 

OOTTER. The Romish Mass and Rubrics. Translated. ISmo. 38 eta, 

CO IT, Dr. Puritanism Reviewed. 12ino. $1. 

EVANS' Rectory of Valehead. 16mo. 50 cents. 

LIGHT IN THE DWI.iI.LING. (A Practical Family Commentary on til 

Four Gospels.) By the author i.f " Peep of Day." Edited by Dr. Tyng. lUasirated 
8v... Cloth, *-2 ; silt edge*, $-2 50 ; im. morocco, $3 50 ; moroecb, $4 51'.' 

GRESLEY'S Port-cat ot an English Churchman. 50 cents. 

Treatise r.i Preaching. 12mo. $1 25. 

GRIFFIN, G. The Gospel its own Advocate. 12mo. $1. 

HOOKER'S Complete Works. Edited by Keble. 2 vols. $4 50. 

IVES' (Bishop) Sermons. 16mo. 50 cents. 

JAMES' Happiness; its Nature and Sources. 

J A.R VIS' Reply to Mil jer's End of Controversy. 12mo. 75 cents. 

KINSGLEY'S Sacred Choir. 75 cents. 

KIP'S Early Conflicts of Christianity. 12mo. 75 cents. 

LYRA APGSTOLICA. 13mo. 50 cents. 

MARSHALL'S Notes on Episcopacy. Edited by Wainwright 12ma fl 

MANNING on the Unity of the Church. 16mo. 75 cents. 

MAURICE on the Kingdom of Christ 8vo. $2 50. 

MAGEE on Atonement and Sacrifice. 2 vols., Svo. $5. 

NEWMAN'S Sermons on Subjects of the Day. 12mo. $1. 

Essay on Christian Doctrine. Svo. Cloth, 75 cents. 

OGILBY on Lay Baptism. 12mo. 50 cents. 

PEARSON o-i the Creed. Edited by Dobson. B,*t Edition. Svo. $2. 


GOO pa-yes. $'2 50. 

PSALTER (The), or Psalms of David. Pointed for Chanting. Edited bj 

Dr. Muhlenberg. l'2mo. She^i), 50 cents ; hsilf cloth, 38 cents. 

SEW ELL. Headings for Every Day in Lent 12mo. Cloth. 75 cents. 
SOUTHARD. "The Mysteries of Godliness." Svo. 75 cents. 

" The Pulpit Cyelopa'dia." Svo. $250. 

SPENCER'S Christian Instructed. IGmo. $1. 
SHERLOCK'S Practical Christian. IGmo. 75 cents. 
SPINCKE'S Manual of Private Devotion. 16mo. 75 cents. 
SUTTON'S Disce Viv.ere, Learn to Live. IGmo. 75 cents. 
SWA RTZ'S Letters to My Godchild. 32ino. Gilt edge. 33 cents, 
TRENCH'S Notes on the Parables. Svo. $1 75. 

Notes rn the Miracles of our Lord. Svo. $1 75. 

TAYLOR'S Holy Living and Dying. l'2mo. $1. 

Episcopacy Asserted and Maintained. 16mo. 

WATSON'S Lecture on Confirmation. ISmo. Paper. 6 cents. 
WILBERFORCE'S Manual tor Communicants. 8* mo. Gilt edges, 38 ota 
WILSON'S Lectures on Colossians. 1'Jir.o. 75 cents. 

Sacra Privata. Complete Edition. IGmo. 75 conts. 

Sacra Privata. 4smo. Cloth, 37 cents; roan, 50 centt 

WHISTON'S Constitution of the Holy Apostles, including the Canon* 

1 i-iiiislnte-! by Dr. Ctiu*. 8vo 

WYATT's C'jrr ian Altar. New Edition. :V:2mo. Cloth, dlt edge*, 88 Hi 

. Apj.Ceton < Company's Publication*. 


APPLETON. Dictionary of Mechanics, Machines, Engine Work, antf 
fegiBMring. containing ovtt 41100 Ulusuaii.'ns, mid nearly aOOU \<u.%r*. Complete ia I 
Vols., large Svo. Strongly and neatly bound, $1-2. 

APPLETON. Mechanics 1 Magazine and Engineers 1 Journal. Edited bj 

Julius W. A.liinia, C. K. Published monthly, iT 'ents per No., or $3 jwr annum. Vol. I 
for 1851, in cloth, *3 60. 

ARCHITECTURE AND BUILDING, Treatises on. By Hoskin$, Tred- 

good, and Young. Illustrated with 36 steel plate*, 4to. $3 50. 

ALLEN, Z. Philosophy of the Mechanics of Nature. Illus. Svo. *8 50 
ABNOT, D. II. Gothic Architecture, Applied to Modern Resident 46 

Plates. lV,,l.,4t... $4. 

AKT1SAN CLUB. Treatise on the Steam Engine. Edited by J. Bourne. 

33 Plates, and 349 Engravings MI wood. 4u.. *ii. 

BOURNE, JOHN. A Catechism of the Steam Engine. 16mo. TS da. 
BYRNE, O. New Method of Calculating Logarithms. 12mo. $1. 
BOUISSINGAULT, J. B. Rural Economy in its Relations with Chemis- 

try, riivt-us, and Meteorology, linio. $1 vo. 

CULLUM, CAPT. On Military Bridges with India Rubber Poisons, 

I,iutr,ited. Svo. $9. 

DOWNING, A. I. Architecture of Country Houses. Including Designs 

for Collates, Farm Houses, and Villas; \\-\\\\ Remarks i.n Interiors, Furniture, and tb 
best modes of Warming and Ventilating-; with 320 Illustrations. I Vol.. Svo. $4. 

- Architecture of Cottages and Farm Houses. Being th 

first part of his work on Country Hous, s, euutauung designs for Farmers, and ihuse who 
desire to build cheap Houses. 8vo. $ 2. 

GRIFFITHS, JOHN W. Treatise, on Marine and Naval Architecture; or, 

Theory and Practice Blewlfd in Ship-Buiirtins:. 5u Plates. ?](>. 

IIALLECKS. Military Art and Science. 12mo. $150. 

HAUPT, H. Theory of Bridge Construction. With Practical Illnstra- 

ti.'ns. svo. ea. 

HOBLYN, R. D. A Dictionary of Scientific Terms. 12mo. $1 50. 
HODGE, P. R. On the Steam Engine. 48 large Plates, folio ; and letter- 

press, vo. siz.-. -T-. 

JEFFERS. Theory and Practice of Naval Gunnery. Svo. Illus. $250. 
KNAPEN. D. M. Mechanic's Assistan 1 , adapted for the use of Carpenters, 

Lumbermen, and A rtisans generally. Iv'mo. $1. 

LA FEVER, M. Beauties of Modern Architecture. 48 Plates, large Svo. $4 
LIEB1G, JUSTUS. Familiar Letters on Chemistry. 18mo. 25 cents. 
OVERMAN, F. Metallurgy ; embracing Elements of Mining Operations, 

Analyzhtior. -fOres, Ac. Svo. Illustrated. 

PARNELL, E. A. Chemistry Applied to the Arts and Manufacture*. 

Illustrated. Svo. Cloth, $1. 

BEYNOLDS, L. R Treatise on Ilandrailing. Twenty Plates. Svo. $2. 
SYDNEY, J. C. Villa and Cottage Architecture. Comprising Residences 

actually liuiit. Hulillshing in N. s., each No. containing 3 Piats, v\uh Gr.,iind Piaa, 
price 5~il ceute. (To be completed iu 10 N'os.) 1 to 6 ready. 

TEMPLETON, W. Mechanic, Millwright, and Engineers 1 Pocket Com 

pmiiou. V.'iiii Ainei-iraii Auditions. Itimo. 91. 

ORE, DR. Die ionary of Arts, Manufactures, and Mines. New Edition 

with Supplement. Kvo. Shoe; . ; '.'.. 

- Supplement to do., separate. Svo. Sheep, $1. 
TOUMAN, E L. Class-book of Chemistry. 12mo. 75 cents, 

- ---- Chart of Ch mi stry. on Roller. $5 



Now Ready. 

sonal and Historical Sketches. 50 cts. 


afterwards Mrs. Milton. 50 cts. 

By M. Hue. 2 vols. $1. 


Authors of the " Rejected Addresses." 50 cts. 


By the Author of " Paul Pry." 2 vols. $1. 



REV. R. A, WILLMOTT. 50 cts. 




ESSAYS FROM THE LONDON TIMES. Second Series. 50 cts. 

A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY, And several Sketches. By 
W. M. THACKERAY. 50 cts. 

Nearly Ready. 


REVIEW, <fec. 

Mclntosh, Maria Jane 
2359 The lofty and the lowly